Safe From Harm
by Maya Tawi
Summary: Someone's killing one of House's patients, and solving the medical mystery could put his own life in danger.
1. Part One

_Disclaimer: Familiar characters, situations, and settings are all the property of David Shore, FOX, and et cetera. I'm just taking 'em out for a spin._

"Safe From Harm" (1/4)  
by Maya Tawi 

_"Tell us what it is, dangerous  
Friends and enemies, I find it's contagious  
And they're spreading through your system like a virus  
Yes, the trouble, in the end it makes you anxious"  
--Massive Attack, "Safe From Harm"_

The woman in Exam Room 2 was visibly nervous, smoothing her stylish skirt over her thighs and crossing and re-crossing her legs. Her first words were, "Can we do this quickly? I don't have much time." 

Dr. Gregory House blinked at her, turned, and started back toward the door. 

The woman's voice rose an octave or two. "Where are you _going_?" 

"To fetch someone," House said over his shoulder, "who cares less about whatever disease you may have than your own personal timetable. Don't worry, this hospital is full of extremely busy doctors. I'm sure I'll find one who can sympathize." 

"No, don't-- please!" She sounded near panic. "I'm sorry, I don't-- Take all the time you need. I mean, of course you will. It's just-- he--" 

House stopped with one hand on the doorknob. 

In a low voice, she said, "My husband doesn't like me to be gone long." 

_Great._ House rolled his eyes, then took a deep breath and slowly turned around. 

"Shirley Knowles," he pronounced, glancing at the chart, then back at the patient. She looked young for her age-- 36-- and supremely arranged, the way that only old money could look. "Fever, abdominal pain, nausea, diarrhea, vomiting. Traveled recently? Gone camping? Eaten at any fast-food chains?" 

"I-- my husband and I were in Mexico last week," she offered after a moment. "He had a business trip." 

"And he took his wife along? Brave man." House pressed gently against her abdomen, noting her discomfort. No hard masses, nothing that seemed out of place. "Bacterial gastroenteritis. Next time, don't drink the water." 

"I didn't." 

"Then stay the hell out of Mexico. On general principle." He scribbled quickly on a prescription pad. "Ciprofloxacin, one a day for five days. Come back if you don't get better and we'll try again." 

Shirley Knowles looked startled. "What-- that's it?" 

"Well, gee," House said. "If you've got time to kill, we could go get a bite to eat, maybe see a movie. I certainly have nothing better to do." 

She flushed. "You don't have to be rude." 

"It's a hobby, not a requirement. And anyway, I was serious." House glanced at his watch; just over an hour left of clinic duty. "Come on, we'll call it patient therapy. I play my cards right, I might even get paid for the time." 

Shirley Knowles stood with great dignity, gathering her coat and purse. "I have to go." 

With amusement, House realized that she thought he was hitting on her. Well, he'd been accused of worse. 

"Right," was all he said. "Wouldn't want to keep your husband waiting." 

She swept past him, and he called after her, "Mrs. Knowles." 

Her shoulders stiffened. 

"Drugs," House said simply. 

She turned to him, looking blank, and then her gaze fell on the prescription still in his outstretched hand. 

"Call me!" he called after her, as she strode out, prescription tucked safely in her purse. He waited just a beat too long before adding, "If the symptoms come back, I mean." 

A less well-bred woman, he was sure, would have flipped him off.

* * *

Why Shirley Knowles had driven over fifty miles from her hometown to visit a free clinic, when she could clearly afford the best, was a mystery that House briefly noted and then filed away in the back of his brain. It was all down to the husband, he was sure, and the only reason he hadn't asked her was that he really _didn't_ want to hear about it. If the man would begrudge his wife the time she needed to get treatment for a potentially fatal disease, he certainly wasn't worth wasting any spare brain cells on. 

He expounded on this particular theme at considerable length in the hospital cafeteria, at which point Wilson said very reasonably, "Then why are you ranting about it now?" 

"Because the depth of human stupidity," House said, "never ceases to amaze me." He popped his last Vicodin and peered into the empty bottle. "Whoops, all gone. May I please have seconds, Daddy?" 

Wilson shook his head. "And here I thought you didn't care about your patients. The clinic patients especially." 

"I don't care about _her_," House said. "_She's_ not the one being an idiot. Except for the part where she is, because she's still with him." 

"Oh, right," Wilson said. "Abused women are so weak-willed. It's a character flaw." 

"She didn't have any bruises." 

"That's not the only form of abuse, and you know it." 

"Yeah? Well, I'm rubber and you're glue and I am so _incredibly_ bored." House scowled at his half-eaten sandwich. "Why don't you ever take me someplace fun?" 

"Because you're impossible to take out in public," Wilson said mildly. "I'd have to dig up the choke chain and the muzzle, and I think they got lost in the move." 

"Kinky." 

"You remember what happened the last time we went to a movie theater, of course. What was it-- '98, '99?" 

"I'll have to check the ticket when I get home. I'm sure I pinned it up right next to my prom corsage." 

"The only reason you didn't get your ass handed to you was because those men were too polite to beat up a cripple. Which, by the way, one of these days you're going to piss off somebody who isn't." 

"Which you've been saying for years now, and it hasn't happened yet. I may have to reconsider my rosy opinion of human nature. Besides, it was a crappy movie." House popped the last of his sandwich in his mouth and pointed at the half-eaten pickle on Wilson's plate. "Are you going to finish that?" he mumbled around the food. 

Wilson looked gratifyingly disgusted at the display. He blinked. "You hate pickles." 

House swallowed with a mighty effort; years of dry-swallowing Vicodin made the movement almost instinctual. "Was that a yes or a no?" 

"Why the sudden interest in my pickle?" 

"Down, boy." 

Wilson refused to be baited. "Go ahead if you're finished. I'm not on duty for another half hour." 

House glared at him. 

Wilson looked first at House, then at the empty pill bottle on the table, and comprehension visibly dawned. He frowned and said, "You just took one." 

"Yes," House said testily, "and in far too few hours I'll have to take another one. And--" he glanced at his watch-- "that annoying pharmacist just started her shift." 

"The one who won't let you fill your own prescription?" 

"No, the one who won't let me grab her rack. What do you think?" 

"I think it should probably surprise me more than it does that you've memorized the shift rotation in the pharmacy." 

"Yes, well," House said, "I think you were clinically insane when you bought those shoes. Are you going to eat the damn pickle or not?" He knew he was being testier than usual, testier than the situation warranted even from him, but for Christ's (or someone's) sake, James ought to know by now not to question the rate at which he went through his pills. He was looking at House like-- like _Foreman_ did. 

It was annoying as hell. 

He held Wilson's gaze, narrowing his eyes in challenge, and eventually Wilson sighed and gave up, like he always did. "Fine," he said, and stood. "I'm done." 

House stood too, with considerably less grace. "Good doctor. You get a biscuit." 

"You won't even let me have a pickle." 

"You can have all the pickles you want approximately five minutes from now. I'll _buy_ you a goddamn pickle." 

"And they say romance is dead," Wilson said, pitching both his and House's napkins and sandwich wrappers into the trash can and following him to the elevator. 

"Too bad your wife never buys you pickles." 

"Julie buys me plenty of pickles." 

"Too bad your wife doesn't buy your shoes. She couldn't possibly have worse taste than you do." 

"Of course not," Wilson said, his voice criminally dry. "Julie has _impeccable_ taste." 

House recognized a deliberate conversational ender when he heard one and, for some reason he was reluctant to identify, elected not to press the point for once. Instead, he whistled tunelessly all the way to the clinic and tried not to think about Shirley Knowles and her husband, who weren't worth the effort. Tried to ignore the part of his brain that was busy fitting pieces together and wasn't satisfied with the final picture. 

Maybe he'd check in with Cameron. See if she had any _real_ cases for him.

* * *

Five days later, after a case of suspected meningitis turned out to be an intracranial abscess, the abscess was excised, and the patient was placed on a prolonged antibiotics course, House finally had time to breathe again. He left Chase and Cameron monitoring the patient's vitals and retreated to his office. 

Someone was waiting for him. 

House cast a quick eye over the man, mentally reviewing his clinic patients from the past week and coming up blank. If he wasn't about to get sued again, he wasn't interested. 

"Go away," he said, unlocking his office door. 

The man ignored him, following him into the office, and House turned to him with a peeved expression. "What part of 'go away' don't you understand?" 

"Dr. House?" The man sounded dubious. 

"Congratulations. You can read." House laid his cane on his desk and opened the top drawer, frowning at the mess within. Now where had he left-- 

"Doctor, my wife saw you in the clinic last week with-- ah--" He paused, then said delicately, "Stomach trouble. Shirley Knowles. I need the records of that visit." 

"No," House said, as he continued to rummage. "Go away." 

To his credit, the man barely missed a beat. "She's switched doctors, and the new one needs her medical records. I thought maybe we could cut through some red tape, you could just give them to me." 

House gave him a long, flat stare, noting the man's confidence, his outthrust chin and expectant look. This was a man used to getting his own way. House was familiar with the condition. 

He turned back to the mess in the drawer and said, "Your request is patently ridiculous, and while I would love to spend the next two hours explaining to you in exhaustive detail just why that is, I happen to be in the midst of a crisis at the moment, so--" Just then, his fingers finally found the portable television hidden beneath a pile of crumpled receipts, and he grasped it in triumph. "Ah. Crisis averted. Are you still here?" 

This time, the man sounded less sure of himself. "Dr. House, my wife is very ill. She's not in her right mind--" 

"Really? Has her tummy trouble gone to her brain? There could be a paper in this." He waited exactly two seconds for the answer he knew wouldn't come, and then slammed the drawer shut and fixed the man with a penetrating look. "Okay. Let me spell this out for you. You have absolutely no legal right to the Knowles woman's file, a fact of which you are obviously very much aware. Even if you were her husband, which I highly doubt is the case, and even if she were mentally incapacitated, which I _also_ doubt, that would not change the essential facts of the case. I can't help you. Get out." 

"I don't--" the man sputtered. "I don't know who you think-- of course I am--" 

"You're not wearing a wedding ring," House recited, closing his eyes in irritation. "Granted, not every married man does, and you're certainly enough of a bastard to be the esteemed Mr. Knowles. But given the shoddy quality of the suit you're wearing, or rather the suit that's wearing _you_, as well as the fact that you are actually wearing a polyester tie, I'm dubious of the veracity of your claim." He paused. "In other words: Liar, liar, pants on fire. Care to tell me why you're so interested in that file?" 

Silence. 

"No? What a surprise." He sat down, propping his bad leg up on the desk, and flicked on the small TV. "Go away, I'm busy." 

He didn't look up as the man left, but he wasn't paying attention to the tiny doctors onscreen, either. His mind was racing. And when he heard the door close after the fake Mr. Knowles, he rested his chin on his hand and murmured, "Interesting." 

During the commercial break, he unearthed Shirley Knowles's file and slipped it inside his briefcase. 

Some light reading with dinner might be nice. There wasn't anything interesting on TV that night anyway.

* * *

"Differential diagnosis," House said the next morning, as he strode with some effort across the conference room to the whiteboard. He started scribbling as he spoke. "Fever, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, abdominal pain. Assume gastroenteritis is off the table. What else?" 

He turned around and waited. His team was still paused in the midst of whatever they'd been doing before he'd walked in. Chase held the coffee pot in one hand and a mug in the other; Cameron was making notes on a file in front of her; Foreman was leaning across the table towards her, caught in mid-conversation. 

"Well?" House demanded, when no immediate answers were forthcoming. "I'm waiting." 

"Good morning to you, too," Foreman muttered. 

House scowled at him. "Do I _look_ like I'm having a good morning?" 

"No," Chase said, after a moment's consideration. 

"How can you tell?" he heard Cameron murmur. 

House rolled his eyes. "Can we stop discussing me now? Fascinating as the subject may be--" 

"Giardiasis," Chase piped up. 

House shot him a look. Chase sipped his coffee and cocked one eyebrow over the rim of his mug. 

"Good one," House acknowledged, and wrote it down. "Next?" 

"IBD," Cameron said, and Chase added, "Dysentery." 

House glanced at the silent Foreman as he wrote. Foreman still looked annoyed. 

"Appendicitis," Cameron said, after a moment. 

"No rigidity, and no specific RLQ tenderness." House paused. "Though that's not necessarily conclusive." 

"So why don't you run a CT scan?" 

"He speaks!" House exclaimed, and Foreman glared at him. 

"Who's the patient?" Cameron was writing again. "I'll order the CT--" 

"As it happens," House said, "the _subject_ of this particular discussion is no longer a patient at this hospital." 

Cameron's pen froze. 

"So what's the point?" Foreman demanded. 

House looked at him in surprise. "Indulging my curiosity, of course. Can you think of a better reason?" 

Foreman snorted. Quietly. 

"Oh, come _on_," House scoffed. "Like you lot have anything better to do than sit by the bedside of--" He paused and gestured vaguely. 

"Parker," Chase supplied. 

"Yeah. Him." 

"Her." 

"Whatever." 

Cameron began, "She's responding well to--" 

"Yes, yes, happy bluebirds, frabjous day," House cut in, tapping the marker impatiently against the whiteboard. "I'm moving on now. Who's with me?" 

Chase raised his hand a little. 

House gave Chase his own version of the eyebrow-cock. "I wasn't actually asking for a headcount." 

Chase just shrugged and put his hand down. 

Foreman made a disgusted sound and pushed his chair back. "_I'm_ going to go check on Parker," he said, standing. "Page me if we get any real cases." 

"Say hi to him for me!" House called after him. 

Foreman waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder. 

"Her," Cameron murmured. 

"I knew that." 

He had just turned back to the whiteboard when the door opened and Wilson poked his head in. "Have you been to your office yet?" 

"And a good morning to you, too," House chirped, far too pleased when Chase choked on his coffee. 

Wilson just gave him a strange look. "Yeah. Whatever. Have you seen it?" 

House frowned. "No, I just foolishly assumed it would still be where I left it. Is it missing? Should we put out a bulletin?" 

"You'd better come look," Wilson said, and ducked out again. 

Curiosity piqued, House followed.

* * *

The place was ransacked. 

"They weren't sure at first if it was actually a break-in," Wilson said from behind him, "given your general state of disarray. But they figured you probably wouldn't have broken your own lock." 

House surveyed the destruction with interest. Files were spilled all over the floor, crumpled and visibly trampled. The contents of all his drawers and cabinets were strewn everywhere. A glass paperweight lay smashed on the floor. 

"Huh," he said after a moment. 

Chase and Cameron were in the hall behind them, craning their necks to see the damage. They'd followed House and Wilson out of the conference room to the next door down the hall; House hadn't unlocked the connecting door between his office and the conference room yet. He heard Chase snicker softly, then whisper to Cameron, "I _thought_ Foreman was working late yesterday." 

"Ha ha," House said loudly, without turning to look at them. "Don't you two have hands to hold?" 

"Not really," Chase said. 

"Go find some." 

They shuffled away like barely-chastised schoolchildren, still whispering, and Wilson shot House a sidelong glance and lowered his voice. "Someone went through all the clinic records as well. Is there anything you'd like to share with the rest of the class?" 

"Yeah," House said, and jiggled the doorknob. "I need a new lock." 

Wilson sighed. "The police want to talk to you. They're waiting in Cuddy's office. Try not to piss them off." 

"Nonsense," House said briskly, turning on his heel and starting for the administrator's office. "Everyone likes me. I'm a people person." 

"You keep saying that," Wilson said, in a passable Inigo Montoya accent. "I don't think it means what you think it means." 

House opened his mouth for a snappy retort, but Wilson was already halfway down the hall in the other direction, hurrying towards the oncology department. He must have been waiting around Diagnostic Medicine all morning for House to show up so he could break the news in person. Typical. 

The Princeton police turned out to be an older, heavyset woman with a stubborn jaw, and a younger man with closely-cropped dark hair. House greeted them with, "Can we do this quickly? Apparently I have an office to redecorate." 

"Dr. House, I presume," the policewoman said, sticking out her hand. "You don't seem too concerned about this." 

"On the contrary. That was my favorite paperweight." 

"_Doctor_," Cuddy murmured from her seat on the sofa, in a voice of veiled steel. 

The policewoman ignored him and said, "I'm Detective Schaeffer, this is Officer Lowell. Any idea what they might have been looking for?" 

"Nope." House paused. "Are we done?" 

Schaeffer gave him a weary look. "Sit down, Dr. House." 

"I'd rather not." 

He saw her eyes flick to his cane. The still-silent Lowell looked amused. He held a pad of paper in one hand, pen poised to take notes. 

After a moment, she sighed and asked, "Is there anyone who might have it in for you? Anyone mad at you for some reason?" 

Oh, honestly. Where to start? 

Cuddy was obviously thinking along similar lines. She snorted. "You got a few hours?" 

"Dr. Cuddy!" House exclaimed in mock-reproval. 

"Oh, _please_," Cuddy said, her voice suddenly sharp. "You go out of your way to annoy people, and patients in particular. It's only a miracle something like this hasn't happened already. If your conduct has in any way brought trouble to this hospital, then you _owe_ it to this institution and myself to own up to it." 

"Nice," House said, impressed. "How long have you been waiting to say that?" 

Cuddy's glare was like ice. "How long have you been working here?" 

Schaeffer cleared her throat. She and Lowell were watching them, wide-eyed. "How about it, Doctor? Something we should know?" 

House shrugged, fishing for a Vicodin to stall for time. He made a face as he swallowed, then said, "I can give you my patient list and you can start from there. Other than that--" He shot Cuddy a pointed look. "--no, I _can't_ think of anyone in particular. I'm sure Dr. Cuddy would be happy to give you an earful, if that's what you want. Personally, I have actual work to do." A bald-faced lie, of course, but neither the police nor Cuddy had the ammunition to call him on it. 

Lowell cleared his throat and said, "Whoever it was seemed to be concentrating on the medical records. Have you had any suspicious patients in the clinic lately?" 

House shot him a hard look. The boy was too clever for his own good. "_Suspicious_ patients? Well, let me think, there was one incredibly tan young man with a bomb strapped under his arm--" 

"He's kidding," Cuddy muttered. She looked like she was getting a migraine. 

"I love having an interpreter," House remarked to the room in general. "Do you come in pocket-size?" 

Cuddy closed her eyes briefly. "Oh, go back to work already." 

"But we're just getting started here! I'm sure Officer Lowell would _love_ to hear about the mass murderer with the strategically-placed scar--" 

"_Go_." 

"Excuse me, Detective," House said to Schaeffer. "Clearly my presence is no longer required. If you have any more questions, I'll be cleaning my office." He paused. "Well, no, _I_ won't-- that's what minions are for. I'll just be holding the whip." He turned back to Cuddy. "Could I borrow your whip?" 

Cuddy stood and strode across the office, holding the door open. "You're _excused_, Dr. House." 

He mock-saluted and ambled out, resisting the urge to whistle. James had told him to behave, after all.

* * *

Back in the conference room, Chase was filling out a crossword puzzle and Cameron was-- surprise, surprise-- checking House's mail. Foreman was still absent. House just pointed at his office and said, "Get to work." 

They obeyed with surprisingly little complaint, probably using the opportunity to gossip some more. House disapproved of gossip when he wasn't in on the joke, but he was feeling generous today; he'd let the kids have their little fun. 

While they cleaned next door, he poured his own cup of coffee and sat down at the table, resting his leg on an empty chair. Then, after a quick look around, he slid the Knowles file from its hiding place in his briefcase. 

He sipped his coffee as he studied the slim file, brow furrowing. Why on Earth would someone be interested in it? The information was scarce; he hadn't even drawn blood, which was beginning to seem like a serious oversight. But it had seemed so clear-cut... 

House suppressed a sigh. Of course it had. That was his trope, after all-- the diseases that weren't quite as clear-cut as they appeared. So what was special about this one? 

He flipped over the medical chart and stared at his own barely-legible handwritten notes on the back: _Rich. Snotty. Recently in Mexico. Scared of husband._ After a moment, he took a pen to the latter, crossing out _of_, and with a slow, heavy hand, wrote _FOR_. 

There. That looked better. 

House frowned at the patient's personal information, lightly tapping the line listing her address and home number. Knowles had been nervous but not paranoid. Odds were she hadn't given false information. 

He stretched in his chair and reached behind him, groping for the telephone without looking, and was only mildly surprised when the receiver smacked into his hand. 

"Wow," he said, staring at it. "That never actually worked before." 

He heard Foreman sigh. "What are you doing now?" 

"None of your business," House said, and waved vaguely at his office. "Go clean." 

Foreman didn't budge. "Hire a maid service." 

"I thought I just did." 

Foreman made an impatient sound, and House took the opportunity to punch in Shirley Knowles's phone number. The phone rang-- two, three, four, and a man's voice: _Knowles residence. Leave a message._

"A man after my own heart," House commented. He broke the connection and then hit redial. 

"I don't want to know, do I?" 

"Probably not." House glanced at him. "So where were you last night, _Eric_?" 

"Not here," Foreman said immediately, "which is all _you_ need to know." 

House pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. "I'm hurt, Eric, I really am. Haven't you learned by now that I need to know _everything_?" 

Answering machine. He tried again. 

"You think you _do_ know everything," Foreman was saying. "That's your problem." 

"My only one? How optimistic of you." Three, four, and still the answering machine. Redial. "If I thought I knew everything, I wouldn't need to know anything. Unless you know something I don't." He paused. "Which isn't very likely. Outside the scope of jimmying locks or fencing stolen goods, of course, but really, who's counting? Then again, I think I just forgot what we were talking about, so unless you have as well, that's at least one up you've got on me. Care to go best out of three?" 

Foreman looked dazed, and annoyed. Maybe a little confused. "Yeah. Uh, I'm gonna go pretend we never had this conversation." 

"Excellent!" House said brightly. "That makes two of us. Now shoo." 

Foreman swept out, and House sang softly to himself, "_Vic-to-reee_..." 

Still no one was answering the phone. House considered leaving a very earnest and concerned message, then hung up instead. Human nature; she'd never get back to him, and then that would be the end of it. 

Perhaps this was one medical mystery that might actually be better solved in person. 

He recognized the address Knowles had given as one in a fairly upscale neighborhood on the outskirts of New York. House propped his chin on the end of his cane, thinking. His car had refused to start again that morning, and he'd had to take the bus to work. Perhaps he should have taken the hint and stayed in bed. The day had gone steadily downhill from there. 

It would be too expensive to take a taxi, even if he could find a driver willing to take him that far; and he didn't feel like navigating public transportation again, especially not in the middle of the day. That left relying on the kindness of long-suffering best friends. 

He called Wilson. "You're not actually doing anything today, are you?" 

Wilson sounded harried. "I did have this crazy notion of getting some work done, yes. Why?" 

"I need to go up to the city." 

"Don't you have clinic duty today?" 

House swore loudly and slammed down the phone.

* * *

This time it was Exam Room 1, and House took only two steps inside before he looked up, stopped, and broke into a wide, not-entirely-false grin. 

"Heeey," he said brightly, drawing out the word. "I know you!" 

The fake Mr. Knowles stood with his hands in his pockets, studying the medical diagrams on the wall. He turned towards the door with what House supposed was meant to be a threatening expression. "Doctor." 

House glanced at the chart. He'd given his name as John Smith. Well, _that_ was original. 

"Don't tell me," he said, closing the door behind him. "Tummy-slash-brain trouble is catching, isn't it? I might have to rethink my original diagnosis." 

Neither-Knowles-nor-Smith looked briefly disconcerted, then went back to threatening. It was a better look for him. "You shouldn't think about it at all, Dr. House," he growled, stalking forward. "Not if you want to stay--" his eyes dropped to House's leg-- "relatively healthy." 

"Nice," House said. "Not bad for a cheap shot. Have you met my boss? You two would get along great." 

"Where's the file, Dr. House?" 

"Yeah, see, that's the funny part." House crumpled up the man's file and tossed it into the garbage. "I never would've looked twice at it if you hadn't been so damn interested. I believe that's what they call irony. Or maybe that's just what they think they call irony." 

"Where is it?" the man repeated. 

House opened his eyes very wide. "You mean you haven't found it yet? Darn it, I hate to think my paperweight was sacrificed for no reason." 

Not-Knowles-or-Smith stepped very close, close enough for House to smell his breath. He sniffed. "You're diabetic. Take your insulin." 

"You're playing a very dangerous game, _Doctor_," the man said softly. 

House just stared at him. He was tall, but this man almost matched him in height. Something thin and insidious began to uncoil in his stomach. He supposed it was fear. 

"I'm not the only one," he said finally, keeping his voice similarly low. "She didn't get sick in Mexico, did she?" 

The man just blinked and smiled, a slow, humorless, reptilian smile. 

House held his gaze. "The police were here earlier. They might even still be in the building. I'm sure they'd _love_ to talk to you. The question is, can you get off hospital property before I reach the phone?" 

"Don't pursue this," the man said. "That's a warning. You'd do well to listen." 

House grinned. "Oh, come on. I'll give you a head start, whaddya say?" 

The man just narrowed his eyes, then turned and walked out without a word, slamming the door behind him. 

House waited a few moments more, taking deep breaths. He glanced down. His knuckles were white around his cane, and he deliberately eased his grip. 

Then he threw the door open and stalked across the clinic to the pharmacy. 

Wilson was there, filling out a prescription form for one of his patients. House greeted him with a mild, "I believe that man just threatened my life." 

Wilson didn't look up. "Just a regular day of clinic duty for you, then?" 

"Thirty-six Vicodin," House said to the man behind the counter. Thank God it wasn't _that_ pharmacist. 

Wilson sighed and laid down his pen. "Okay, seriously. What's going on?" 

"Nuh-uh," House said immediately, as the pharmacist handed him his pills. "You don't play hooky with me, you don't get to join the secret club. No _girls_ allowed." 

"I'll try to live with the disappointment." 

House dry-swallowed a pill. "What are you doing tonight?" 

"Taking Julie to dinner. Why?" 

"Is it your anniversary already? How time flies." 

"It's not." 

"I _know_," House said with a grimace. "The memory of that hellish night is seared into my brain. I get flashbacks every time I see a damn bouquet. So what's the occasion?" 

"Face it," Wilson said, starting to walk away. "You're a chick magnet." 

House followed. "And _you_ are avoiding the question." 

Wilson's lips quirked in an almost-smile. "Tell me what your thug wanted, and I'll tell you why we're going to dinner." 

Like he needed to ask. "Marriage falling apart again?" 

"I don't want to talk about it." 

"Please don't." 

After a moment, Wilson said, "Did you want to do something? I can cancel--" 

"Have you noticed," House said conversationally, "that your priorities are extremely fucked up? Not to put too fine a point on it." 

"Was that a yes or a no?" 

House thought about it. It was tempting, but... 

"Nah," he said. "It'll keep. You go have dinner with your _lovely_ wife." 

Wilson looked bemused. "Gee, thanks." 

House gave him a dismissive wave. Cuddy was advancing with a file folder in hand, and she did not look happy. 

Christ. He'd just _started_. Four more hours of this. 

He didn't tell her about not-John Smith, and if pressed, would probably even think of a good reason why not.

* * *

House was out the door as soon as the little hand hit four, fast enough that when Cuddy made some snide remark about the Special Olympics, he didn't even stop to retort. He just filed the remark away in the _She'll pay for it later_ section of his brain-- a large, well-developed and frequently-exercised area-- and kept going. 

The train took him to New York, and a taxi would take him back out again. House navigated the rush-hour crowds with a black glare and a brandished cane, and managed to steal a cab out from under a young mother with two squalling brats, a triumph which pleased him immensely. 

It was almost 7:00 by the time the taxi pulled up in front of the Knowles' residence, by which time House was tired, hungry, in pain, and seriously regretting whatever embryonic humanitarian impulse had led him to decline Wilson's offer. Luckily, the cab driver was a prick, and by the time House vented his spleen and exited the car without tipping, he was already feeling more cheerful. A Vicodin only improved his state of mind some more, and, sufficiently braced for human contact, he slowly climbed the walkway to the front door. 

The house was massive, with a nigh-criminal flight of brick stairs leading to the entrance. House eyed it balefully, but, buoyed by the Vicodin, he made it up the stairs with minimal cursing and rang the doorbell. 

No answer. He tried the doorknob-- locked, of course. 

"Well," House said to the front door, "shit." 

He glanced back at the street-- the taxi was, of course, long gone, and no one else was in sight. This was why he always sent his minions to break into people's homes; that way he didn't have to learn to pick locks himself. In this particular case, however, criminal enterprise would sadly be unnecessary. 

House checked under the doormat, in the large clay flowerpot, and finally found the key underneath a hideous cement statue of a frog. 

Once inside, he knocked loudly against the inside of the door and called, "Hello! Anyone home?" 

Silence. 

"I'm an evil burglar, come to steal all your nice things!" 

This time, the silence was broken by a weak murmur of protest. 

The sound came from upstairs-- _Of course_, House thought wearily, and gripped his cane tightly. _Drugs, think of the drugs, forget the pain and focus on the drugs_, and he climbed the stairs slowly, one agonizing step after another. The Vicodin was kicking in, but not nearly fast enough. 

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the second floor and slumped against the wall, breathing heavily. He caught his breath and was immediately assaulted by the stench of sickness. 

His own pain forgotten, House hurried down the hallway, following his nose. A pair of double doors at the end of the hall opened into what he assumed was the master bedroom. The room was dark, illuminated only by the fading sunlight creeping in through the blinds; House turned on the light, then froze, his hand still on the switch. 

The woman in the bed looked nothing like the one who'd been in the clinic only a week ago. This woman was pale, wasted, and covered in filth. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes looked glassy, and her nightgown was stained with blood. 

House was across the room in an instant, checking her vitals. For a horrible moment he thought she was dead; but then she coughed weakly, blinked, and tried to focus on him. 

"You," she croaked. Blood-streaked saliva trickled out of the corner of her mouth. 

House ignored her. "How long have you been like this?" 

"Day or..." She winced. "Two..." 

"And it didn't occur to you to maybe call an ambulance?" 

"Husband," Shirley Knowles began, and then she turned her head to the side and vomited blood. 

"My sentiments exactly," House muttered. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 911. 

After explaining the situation and impressing on the operator the need to get an ambulance out immediately if she had any intention of keeping her job, House tucked the phone away and eyed his patient critically. She was going into shock, probably from blood loss. There wasn't much he could do until the ambulance arrived, but he could at least get her some water to wash the taste of blood away. He turned her head to the side first, so she wouldn't choke if she vomited again, then made his way to the connecting bathroom, filled up a paper cup with water. He was helping Shirley Knowles drink when he heard footsteps from the hallway, then an ominous click. And then: 

"Put your hands up and turn around." 

House closed his eyes briefly, then turned. 

Alias-Smith-or-Knowles stood in the doorway, pointing a gun at him. 

A metallic prick of fear at the back of his throat made House dizzy, but it didn't last long. The familiar rush of narcotics was spreading through his blood, overwhelming all his other emotions. 

"Well," he said, "this has certainly been a bitch of a day." 

The man was unmoved. "Step away from the bed and put the cane down." 

House tightened his fingers around the handle of his cane and said, "I should warn you that I called the police. In fact--" He cocked his head, listening, and was rewarded by a far-off siren. "I do believe that's them right now." 

"Wrong," the man said. "You called an ambulance." 

House rolled his eyes. "Fine, yes, I called an ambulance, you found me out. It doesn't matter. Both police and ambulance make a marvelously loud noise that's sure to attract the attention of the neighbors. Both come equipped with large, strapping young men operating in an official capacity. Your clumsy attempts at subterfuge earlier obviously mean you don't want to attract undue attention. Shoot me, and, well-- the best-laid plans of idiots and half-wits, et cetera." 

The man narrowed his eyes and raised the gun. His grip was steady. He was clearly comfortable holding the thing. 

"I'm ready to make an exception," he said. 

"Yeah," House said, staring at the gun. "I tend to bring that out in people." 

"Put down the cane. Last warning." 

The sirens were getting closer. House reluctantly leaned the cane against the wall, and felt ridiculously helpless once it was no longer in his hand. Ridiculous, because it wasn't like one cane more or less was going to have much effect in the face of a gun. 

"Move towards me," the man said, and House took one painful, faltering step forward. 

The man started to circle around him. "I'm taking her out of here." 

"No," House said, "you're not." 

"And you're gonna stop me?" He looked amused. 

"This is _my_ patient. Yes, I'm going to stop you." 

The sound of the siren was now deafening. Red and white lights flashed through the blinds, and a moment later, brakes screeched to a halt and the front door banged open. "Hello?" a distant voice called. 

"Upstairs!" House yelled back, not taking his eyes off the gun. 

The man blinked. His grip on the gun faltered. 

"Last chance," House said, with an unpleasant smile. "Shoot me and get the police involved, or leave now and keep up the charade. What's it gonna be?" 

There was a long pause. 

"This isn't over," the man said finally, and vanished back into the hallway. 

House blinked. His pulse was racing. His hands trembled. He barely felt the pain in his leg. 

What the _hell_ was going on here? 

When the paramedics burst into the room, he was back on familiar ground. They carried Shirley Knowles out the door and down the stairs, and he followed her into the back of the ambulance, into a world he knew like the back of his hand. 

End Part 1 

_Feedback will be loved and hugged and played with and called George-- er, I mean, will be appreciated. Yes. Very much so._


	2. Part Two

"Safe From Harm" (2/4)  
by Maya Tawi 

It took a great deal of argument, raised voices, and cane-brandishing to convince the ambulance driver to take Knowles to PPTH instead of the local hospital, but in the end House prevailed, as he knew he would. The fifty-mile journey back to Princeton took considerably less time than his earlier struggles with public transportation, but it was still fully dark by the time they pulled up in front of the ER. 

House followed the paramedics and the stretcher through the doors, barking out orders as he went. "Get this woman stabilized, and then I want a full series of tests. Blood work, CT scans, full tox screen-- find out what the hell's wrong with her, and find it _fast_." 

He ignored the grumbles and the eye-rolls. He was used to them by now. 

His team, of course, was gone for the day; he'd half-expected to find them in the conference room as usual, but only out of habit. House threw his jacket on his desk, picked up the phone, and paged the three of them in quick succession-- speed-dials 2, 3, and 4. Then he sat down and watched TV until the phone rang. 

House grabbed it and said, "Yeah." 

"She's stable. She's in the ICU." 

"Good." He hung up and stood. 

The door to his office burst open, and Chase stood there, looking ridiculously rumpled and out of breath. "What's up?" 

House eyed him critically. Then he smiled. 

"Come in," he said, sitting down again, "and close the door." 

Chase, bless the boy, looked equal parts suspicious and pleased. He eased the door shut and asked again, "What's going on? I got your page--" 

"Which I deduced from the fact that you are, currently, standing here. Now shut up and listen, we don't have much time before the others arrive." 

Suspicion was quickly winning out. "This isn't going to be an illegal thing, is it?" 

"Of course not!" House exclaimed, sounding offended. "Certainly no more illegal than impersonating the CDC to a poor, distraught mother who only wants what's best for her son. _Definitely_ no more criminal than your shoddy attempt at a Southern accent--" 

"I could just go home," Chase said, jerking a thumb towards the door. 

"Yeah," House said, "but you won't." 

"I was in the middle of a date, you know." 

"You! A date?" House stared at him, wide-eyed. "With a _girl_?" 

Chase sighed. "What do you want?" 

House leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. "There's a woman in the ER named Shirley Knowles. You guys are going to take a personal interest in her case. _You_, specifically, are going to make a copy of every single scan and test result that comes back from the lab, and keep the copies somewhere safe." 

"Safe like where?" 

"How the hell should I know? Keep 'em in your damn hope chest, for all I care. Just don't advertise it. Keep them _safe_." 

Now Chase looked amused. "To be opened in the event of your death, I presume?" 

"Not _my_ death," House said. "Are you gonna do it, or should I ask one of your coworkers? Foreman's got balls. He seems the type to flout danger." He waggled his eyebrows. 

"Not for you, he wouldn't." Chase was grinning, damn him. 

But Chase would do it. Chase was still too much of a Good Boy not to, despite House's best efforts to the contrary. So House sent him down to the ER, where he could at least make himself useful, and when Cameron and Foreman arrived, he instructed them to follow Chase's lead and sent them down as well. 

Then, finally, blissfully alone again, he rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. 

Today was almost tomorrow now. He couldn't do anything more until the test results came back. The adrenaline high from earlier was long gone, and he felt like someone had taken a chainsaw to his leg. 

House dry-swallowed a pill and reached for the phone. 

The bus was still running. For that matter, he could've taken another taxi. It was either sadism or masochism that led him to dial Wilson's cell number-- speed dial, 1-- and in the end, it didn't really matter which.

* * *

The tox screen came back negative; the scans and the blood work would take longer. When Wilson arrived, House was poring over his medical texts, scribbling notes in the margins. Without looking up, he said, "It's probably bacterial, don't you think? Doesn't really narrow it down, but it's someplace to start." 

"House--" 

"I should start her on antibiotics. The Cipro might have helped. Of course, I couldn't exactly ask--" 

"House," Wilson said, "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

"That's okay," House said. "I wasn't planning on listening to you anyway." 

Wilson sighed. "Come on. It's late, you're tired--" 

"It's not _that_ late. I may be a crotchety old man, but I'm not exactly ready for a bunk in the nursing home yet." 

"You've had a long day." 

"Ain't _that_ the truth." House slammed the book shut and stood. "Remind me," he said, grabbing his jacket and shrugging it on, "antibiotics." 

"I'll write you a Post-It," Wilson said. 

They rode the elevator in silence for a while, and then House asked, "How was dinner," and Wilson said, "Short," and there wasn't really much else to say after that. They stopped by Chase in the ICU long enough for House to say, "Antibiotics," and not much else. 

In the car, Wilson tapped his fingers and hummed along with the radio, and House surprised himself by drifting off with his head against the window. When the Mercedes slid to a smooth stop outside his house, he jerked upright and blinked himself awake, trying not to look like he'd been asleep. 

"Come on in," he said, fumbling his way out of the car. "Have a drink." 

"Great idea. I was feeling too sober to drive anyway." But Wilson followed, as House knew he would. 

The mess that greeted them when the door opened was like some unfortunate kind of déjà vu. House stared at the upturned furniture, strewn papers, and scattered books, and said, "Damn Tooth Fairy. I knew I should've left out the good scotch." 

Wilson's breath was an explosive puff of hot air on the back of his neck. "Why does this feel familiar?" 

"Oh, come on. You've seen my attempts at housekeeping." But House realized with a sinking feeling that Wilson wasn't buying it, that Wilson had him cornered, and this time he'd have to come clean. 

Indeed, Wilson pushed him none-too-gently towards the sofa, sweeping debris off the cushions with an outstretched arm, and said firmly, "Sit." 

"Woof," House said, and sat. 

Wilson stood with his arms crossed. "Spill." 

"Well," House said, "there's this really cute boy in my English class, I passed him a note at lunch but I still don't know if he likes me--" 

"Damn it!" Wilson slapped the wall, and House just barely managed not to flinch. "This is _not_ a joke, and _you_ are not an idiot. You know exactly what's going on, and you're going to tell me." 

House raised his eyebrows. "Or what, you'll spank me?" 

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "Or I'll tell Cuddy you have the hots for her." 

"_Ouch_," House said, impressed. 

"I learned from the best. Start talking." 

"Get me a drink first." 

"You know," Wilson said, pouring a generous shot of scotch, "you shouldn't be drinking at all." 

House took the shot glass and raised an eyebrow at him over the rim. "Your point?" 

He drained the glass in two long swallows, and then he told Wilson everything. 

Wilson just stared at him. When he got to the first break-in, Wilson sat down next to him on the couch, still staring. When he got to the encounter in the Knowles' house, Wilson poured himself a shot and started drinking. And when he finished, Wilson licked his lips and then asked, "What did the police say?" 

House reached for the bottle. "You know, I think I'll just pour another--" 

Wilson's voice was sharp. "_Please_ tell me you called the police." 

"Of course I didn't!" House snapped, abandoning the pretense and lowering his arm. "This is _my_ case." 

"Greg," Wilson said, "you are a _doctor_." 

"Oh, thank God somebody told me. I was beginning to think all those years of medical school were just one long mescaline-induced nightmare--" 

"Doctor, Greg. Not detective, not secret agent--" 

"Have I ever given you reason to doubt my self-awareness?" 

"You don't want me to answer that." 

House stared at him. "Well, I do _now_. What the hell are you implying?" 

"That's not the issue," Wilson began. 

"It is now!" 

Wilson stood. "Call the police. Or I will." 

"And tell them what?" House demanded. "That a woman's sick? Stop the presses." 

"For God's sake, House, somebody pointed a gun at you!" 

"Merely the first to succumb to a popular desire, I'm sure." 

Wilson gave him a hard look. "I'm sure it's occurred to you that someone could be making her sick?" 

House rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. Give me _some_ credit. She tested negative for all known poisons. Yes, I checked. Surprise." 

"Greg--" 

"Damn it, James, just drop it, would you? She's at the hospital now, she's safe, and I'm going to find out what's wrong with her. End of story." 

Wilson stared down at him. "And that's it, is it? Your job begins and ends at the hospital, and everything else can go hang?" 

"Of course not!" House burst out, and he stood too, with some difficulty. "We don't even know a crime's been committed--" 

"Have you taken a good look around?" 

"Okay, breaking and entering, but besides that! And--" House broke off abruptly. 

"And?" Wilson demanded. "Come on, don't stop now, we all know _you're_ never at a loss for words--" 

"And _it's my case_," House said flatly. "Not the police, not the CDC. Mine." 

Wilson just gaped at him. 

"I knew you were an arrogant bastard," he said finally. "But this..." 

He trailed off and shook his head. 

"Look," House said, a little desperately, "at least wait until the tests come back. Give me that much time." 

Wilson gave him a flat, unreadable look. 

House gritted his teeth together. "_Please_." 

Wilson walked over to the window and peered out. "Funny," he said, "I don't _see_ any flying pigs." 

"Ha fucking ha." 

Wilson sighed. "You have till tomorrow morning. Then if you haven't called the police, I will." 

"Excellent," House said, and pulled the original Knowles file out of his briefcase-- creased and grimy now, rather worse for the wear, and probably irrelevant by this point, but it never hurt to be too careful. "Hang onto this, would you? I'm pretty sure it's what they were looking for." 

"I-- you--" Wilson snapped his mouth shut. 

"Oh, come on," House said, and grinned. "I'll give it to Chase if you don't." 

"You wouldn't," Wilson said. 

"Watch me." No need to mention that Chase was holding onto the new file. James was stressed enough already. 

"Of course you would," Wilson said with a sigh. 

"You know, you really are the bestest friend--" 

"Shut up," Wilson said, snatching the file out of his hand. "Please." 

House smiled. "Well, when you ask so nicely."

* * *

Wilson had made halfhearted noises about House sleeping at his place, for safety's sake, but since he knew that House would rather chew his own leg off than spend the night in Julie's home, the impulse was short-lived. Then he started on about sleeping on _House's_ sofa, and House very nearly had to whack him with his cane to make him go away. 

Finally alone, he double-checked all the locks, feeling foolish as he did so. It obviously hadn't stopped them the first time. After a moment's deliberation, he dragged the piano bench in front of the door and then glared at it, as though daring it to comment. 

House didn't think he'd be able to sleep; his brain was too busy, sifting through the possibilities, putting pieces together and then discarding them. But pain, drugs, and a too-long day made for a potent combination, and he hadn't lain in bed long before he was out like a light. 

He thought he heard the telephone ring, once, while still in the murky depths of unconsciousness. But by the time he surfaced, the phone by the bed was silent, and the answering machine was all the way in the next room... 

House shifted his leg slightly, downed another pill, and slept.

* * *

He managed to bully his car into starting the next morning, after fifteen minutes of swearing at it and kicking the tires. Things were looking up. 

His good mood lasted exactly half an hour, at which time he walked into the conference room and was greeted by Foreman's and Cameron's guilty looks. 

The news was not encouraging. 

"What do you mean," House asked, in a low, dangerous voice, "she's _gone_?" 

Cameron stared at the ground. Foreman met his glare squarely and retorted, "Now you're concerned? Last time you all but bit my head off for disturbing your beauty sleep." 

God, sometimes House just wanted to throttle him. 

"_Last time_," he growled instead, "was a sixteen-year-old boy with a noncommunicable brain disorder, not a dying woman vomiting blood. If you can't see the difference, I may have severely underestimated your capacity for intelligent thought." 

Foreman glared back at him. "Yeah, but at least I've got street smarts, right?" 

The door of the conference room opened before House could respond. He spun around and demanded of Chase, "Why didn't _you_ call me?" From the corner of his eye, he saw Cameron glance up sharply, looking hurt. He ignored her. 

Chase just looked exhausted. Even his hair was limp. He handed House a file and said simply, "I did. You didn't answer. I left a message." 

Oh. 

House flipped open the file, and Chase added, "The CT scan showed some mesenteric adenopathy. Her white counts are elevated, and the blood culture came back. It's definitely bacterial." 

House raised his eyebrows in question. Chase gave him a look that said clearly, _Of course_, and House murmured, "Good boy." 

Chase wasn't done. "A definitive culture won't be ready for at least another day. Till then, I'd suggest broad spectrum antibiotics, but--" He shrugged. 

"Yeah," House said. "Too bad the patient isn't here so we can _treat_ her. That'd be keen." 

Foreman's eyes were darting back and forth between them, like a spectator's at a tennis match. Finally, he demanded, "Why are you even on this case? It's a bacterial infection. The culture will tell us which one. It's _boring_." 

House gave him a quick, dismissive look. "You're right. Let's not bother treating patients; let's just break for recess. I call dibs on the monkey bars." 

Foreman looked annoyed, but said, "Exactly. The patient's diagnosed, and now she's gone. I can understand why anyone else would be worked up about it, but why are _you_ still interested?" 

"Because," House said, snapping the file shut, "the diagnosis isn't the mystery here." 

"What does that even _mean_," Foreman muttered, but House wasn't paying attention. Wilson had appeared in the doorway, silent and implacable. House could feel the eyes on the back of his neck. 

He sighed, cutting off Foreman in mid-grumble. "Cameron," he said, suddenly very tired, "call the police." 

She gave him a strange look and said, "We already did. They're looking for Shirley now, and--" 

"Call them again," House interrupted, and limped past her to his office. 

He didn't bother shutting the door behind him. Sure enough, Wilson did it for him. 

"Go ahead," House said, slumping into his chair. "Say it." 

"I wasn't going to." 

"I would." 

"Yes, well," Wilson said. "That's why you're the asshole and I'm the nice one." 

House snorted. "How little they know." 

Wilson ignored the dig. "You know you have to tell them everything." 

"Yeah," House said after a moment. He wasn't sure whether Wilson meant his team or the police, but either way, it was true. 

"You know they could charge you." 

The police, then. "Wouldn't be the first time," House muttered. 

"You could get fired--" 

"Aren't you just a ray of fucking sunshine?" 

Wilson was unruffled. "I want you to be prepared." 

"And I want a pony," House snapped. "Doesn't mean I'm gonna tack horsehair to your ass." 

"Well," Wilson said after a moment, "that was fairly random." 

House sighed and dry-swallowed a Vicodin. "I'm not very good at playing defense." 

"No," Wilson agreed, sitting down. "Being offensive is much more your forte." 

"You'll come visit me prison?" 

"I'll bake a portable TV into a cake." 

"Excellent. I love it when a plan comes together." 

"You were right about it being bacterial," Wilson offered, after a moment. 

"Yeah," House said, and turned on the television. "Big consolation." 

Then they sat in silence, and watched daytime soaps together until the police arrived.

* * *

Schaeffer and Lowell were not happy. 

"So basically," Schaeffer said, "you're telling us that you covered up a possible crime for over a week, putting an innocent woman's life in danger?" 

"Be fair," House said to his cane, as he slid it back and forth between his hands, studying the fine grain of the wood. "First of all, I didn't _know_ it was a possible crime until the day before yesterday. Second, her life was already in danger. If anything, I added a few more days to what was already a seriously abbreviated life span. And third, if she were _innocent_, she wouldn't be dying in the first place." 

Silence. House frowned and picked at a small flaw in the wood. Was that a splinter? 

Finally, sounding strangled, Schaeffer inquired, "How exactly do you figure that?" 

House looked up in surprise. "Well, obviously, if someone's making her sick, there's a reason for it. Someone wants her to die from what looks like natural causes, and they wouldn't go to that kind of trouble if it weren't more dangerous to keep her alive. Put it together with her fear and her attempt to hide her clinic visit, and it's kind of blisteringly obvious that she knew something she shouldn't." 

Schaeffer and Lowell exchanged a look. Schaeffer looked grim. Lowell looked like he was either about to lose his shit, or... well, lose his shit in a different, less fun way. 

"Face it," House said smugly. "She's as guilty of withholding evidence as I am. If you're gonna arrest me, I demand you arrest her first." 

Wilson rested a warning hand between House's shoulder blades. House twisted around in his seat and glared up at him. "Don't you have work to do?" he demanded. 

"No," Wilson said, and made no move to leave. He'd stuck around, God only knew why, and was standing behind House's desk chair like a sentry. House figured he was either there for moral support, which he didn't need, or to make sure he didn't annoy the cops into arresting him anyway, which... okay, he actually might need that. 

"Delinquent," House muttered. He turned back to the cops, who still stood between his desk and the door, as though blocking his means of escape. Like he'd get very far before they tackled him. "Look, is there anything else? _He_ might not have anything to do-- it's not like the head of the entire oncology department has any actual duties to attend to-- but I do." 

Wilson gave a small, disbelieving snort, which he quickly turned into a cough. 

Schaeffer ignored him. She was flipping through a file. "Dr. House, you were recently charged with... battery against a patient at this hospital, is that right?" 

House rolled his eyes. "Yes, once upon a time I unlawfully tried to save the life of a dying man. I'm clearly a desperate criminal out for blood." 

"So you have a history of disregarding the law when it suits you?" 

"I plead the fifth," House said. "And also remind you that those charges were dropped." 

"Right," Schaeffer murmured. Lowell scribbled something in his notebook. House stared at him, and he fumbled nervously with his pen. 

"So help me out here," Schaeffer continued. "Why, exactly, didn't you report this right away?" 

House sighed. "Do we really need to get into my motives here? It was a judgment call, I made it, it went badly. Can we get to the part where I promise never to do it again?" 

She pinned him with an icy glare. He was impressed despite himself; she'd clearly had a lot of practice with that particular expression. "I suggest you start taking this seriously, Dr. House. You're in serious trouble here." 

"And me taking you seriously is going to get me _out_ of trouble?" House drummed his fingers impatiently on his desk, ignoring Wilson's second warning hand, this time a light squeeze of his shoulder. "Look, I did my duty, I called you guys and confessed like a good boy. So whaddya say you go do your job, and I'll sit here and do mine?" 

Schaeffer elbowed Lowell, and he snapped his notebook shut. 

"Don't go anywhere," she said, and gave first Wilson, and then House a long, speculative look. 

House waved his hand airily. "Well, I was gonna run a marathon later today, but okay, you talked me out of it." 

The door closed behind them, and House leaned back in his chair and said, "You realize she thinks you're my boyfriend." 

"Well, you always said I was a masochist," Wilson said, as he, too, made for the door. 

"That's because I've known your wives. This could be the start of a beautiful relationship." 

"Yes, it always turns me on when you insult my taste in women." 

Ooh, touchy. House quickly sidestepped the subject. "Think I could use it to my advantage? They might not be so quick to charge me if I could cry unfair discrimination due to homophobia." 

Wilson opened the door to the conference room and said over his shoulder, "I think if your defense rests entirely on the suggestion that we're having sex, you're better off fleeing the country." 

In the next room, Cameron, Foreman, and Chase all turned as one to stare at them. 

House blew Wilson a kiss and said loudly, "See you at home, honeybuns." 

Wilson rolled his eyes and turned to leave. 

"Remember, the red lace is my favorite!" House yelled after him. 

His only response was an upraised middle finger.

* * *

Wilson was right about one thing. Well, actually, Wilson was right about several things, as he usually was, but House figured it was for the man's own good not to tell him as much. Kept him on his toes. Kept him humble 

House approved of humility in other people. It was just one of those things, like marijuana and fancy suits, that never quite worked for him. 

But Wilson was right about one thing in particular: House wasn't a detective, and more was the pity. If he were, he could investigate Shirley Knowles's husband, try to find out exactly what he did and what he could have possibly gotten involved with. As it was, House didn't even know the man's first name. All he really knew was that Mr. Knowles probably didn't wear polyester suits. 

This was the kind of thing he'd usually tell his team to do, and be relatively confident that they'd come back with something useful. Foreman probably knew all sorts of ingenious criminal ways of getting the dirt on someone... well, okay, he probably didn't. But it was so much fun to watch him get all indignant when House suggested it. 

Usually he'd tell his team to do it, so he wasn't quite sure why he didn't do so this time, except maybe some unexpected attack of embryonic conscience that kept his mouth shut every time he was tempted to open it. Taking professional risks was one thing, but he'd already had a gun pointed at him. Getting any of the kiddies involved in a potentially life-threatening situation would be inexpedient, to say the least. House _liked_ his team. He didn't particularly look forward to replacing any one of them. 

Unfortunately, said embryonic conscience left him without much else to do. The patient was gone, the blood culture was growing, and Chase was currently passed out on the table in the conference room, drooling into his hair, while Cameron mainlined coffee and Foreman, again, was nowhere to be seen. 

With a sigh, House hauled a pile of reference books onto his desk and opened one to the first page to read. If he could beat the blood culture to a diagnosis, it might give him some ideas as to what was going on. 

Also, it would just make him feel special.

* * *

In the end, it didn't take long at all. 

It helped that he'd started with A. 

"Oh, _hell_," was all he said at first, staring at the page; and then, "Of _course_. 

House glanced at the conference room again, and of course it was empty now. Chase and Cameron had vanished, leaving only a half-full coffee mug and a puddle of drool. He sighed. This was why they couldn't have nice things. Hadn't their mothers ever taught them to pick up after themselves? 

He reached for the phone, then reconsidered, glancing at the clock. Wilson would be just starting clinic duty now, and he felt like sharing his genius in person. 

Of course, his "genius" in this particular case consisted of... well, reading a book. But that was already more than most doctors could claim. No, the real puzzle lay in figuring out what Shirley Knowles's disease actually _meant_. And he was starting to put the pieces together... 

He ought to tell the police, he knew. But that could wait. Wilson came first. 

House stood and grabbed his cane, and had just reached the glass door of his office when he finally noticed the man on the other side, frozen in the act of opening it. 

He studied the man for the barest moment, taking in the expensive haircut, the well-cut suit, and the general air of dishevelment and desperation, and then opened the door and said, "_Monsignor_ Knowles, I presume." 

"You have to help her," Knowles said, pushing past him into the office. 

House let the door fall shut and rested his forehead briefly against the glass. Then he turned around and said dryly, "Any suggestions as to how?" 

Knowles was pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his head in frustration. He tossed House a furious look but said nothing. 

"I'm good at what I do," House said to fill the silence, as he limped back to his desk. "But even I haven't figured out a way to cure anthrax from a distance. Or were you relying on my hugely powerful brain waves to do the trick?" 

Knowles stopped and stared at him. "So you know." 

"It took me a while," House admitted as he sat down. "Which I'm not proud of. In my defense, there have been maybe eleven recorded cases of gastrointestinal anthrax in the world, none of those in the United States, so I can hardly be blamed for it not being the first thing to spring to mind." 

"We were in--" Knowles began. 

"Mexico, yes, I heard. But that's not where it happened, is it?" House smiled a little. "That's where it started, sure, but it's not where she got sick." 

He dropped the smile and leaned back in his chair. "Someone had to put it in her food. And unless you've got a disgruntled cook with a germ lab in her basement, that leaves, well..." He spun his cane between his fingers, then pointed it like a teacher's pointer, or a magic wand. "You." 

Silence. Knowles seemed frozen in place. 

"It's not even supposed to work that way," House mused. "They've tried it, feeding the spores to lab monkeys, but the stubborn little buggers simply refused to get sick." He shrugged. "Maybe it's different for human lab rats. Or maybe your friends juiced up the formula, so to speak." 

"My friends," Knowles echoed dumbly. 

House raised his eyebrows. "Yeah. Your friends. You know, the ones you're financing to generate anthrax spores and sell them to the highest bidder?" 

Knowles's hands started to shake. His voice was hoarse. "How-- how did you know?" 

House gave him a pointed look and said, "For one thing, you just told me." 

Knowles opened his mouth, then shut it again. 

"For another," House said, "I'm extremely intelligent. Mind if I try my hand at the rest of it? Your wife said Mexico was a business trip, and it was. Just not the business she thought. Now I'm just taking a wild stab in the dark here, but I'm guessing you and your friends were meeting with a potential buyer, your wife saw something she shouldn't, and you decided to kill her. Am I getting warm?" 

"You--" Knowles looked stunned. 

"I watch _Alias_," House explained. "I know how these things work." 

Knowles rubbed his hands furiously on his trousers, wrinkling the fine fabric. Desperately he said, "I didn't-- I _never_ wanted to--" 

"_Right_," House said. "You're in love. No wonder you're poisoning her." 

"They said-- they were going to do it themselves, I thought if I gave her a chance to get help--" 

"Hedging your bets," House said. "Very clever. I can see how you became such a rich, important man. Obviously not rich enough, though, or you wouldn't have gotten yourself into this mess." He narrowed his eyes. "Of course, the fact that you're here now suggests either a sudden attack of conscience, or you've just realized that the shit is precariously poised to hit the fan. Would you like to know my guess?" 

"I've had quite enough of your _guesses_," Knowles snapped. "The police are involved now. It's over. If you come with me, if you treat her-- she doesn't have to die!" 

House rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Fatal disease. You don't get _takebacks_." 

Knowles went pale. "You can't-- you can't cure her?" 

"I could try," House allowed after a moment. "At this late stage, if it hasn't gone septicemic or meningeal, she's got maybe a sixty percent chance of pulling through with antibiotics. Of course, any idiot could dose her. You don't need me for that." 

"And if it has gone--" Knowles hesitated. "What you said?" 

"Well," House said, "then the odds are significantly lower." 

"I looked it up," Knowles said, and House rolled his eyes and muttered, "Of _course_ you did." God bless the internet. 

Knowles was still talking. "They said-- they-- an infectious disease specialist, they said. That's you, isn't it?" 

"Oh, sure," House said. "Me and fifty other doctors at this hospital. So which is it, my good looks or my charming personality?" 

"If something goes wrong," Knowles insisted, "you'll know what to do." 

"Which is no guarantee that I will be able to do it," House retorted. "Pick a side, you moron. If you want your wife to live, bring her back to the hospital for treatment. Otherwise I'd invest in a good mourning suit." 

"I _can't_!" Knowles yelled. His face was white, his eyes red. "I can't get her away from them! But I know where they're keeping her! I can take you there!" 

"And what, I'll crawl through the air ducts to get to her, right?" House reached for the phone. "Sorry, not interested. The police, however, will be." 

"No police," Knowles said. 

"Yeah, I tried that. Didn't work so well." House started to punch in Schaeffer's number. 

"No police," Knowles said again, and when House looked, he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun for the second time in as many days. 

He willed himself not to react. Knowles was... was not not-Knowles, and there was a fun linguistic tangle if he'd ever heard one. Knowles's hands were shaking around the grip of the gun. He was sweating. He looked terrified. 

None of which necessarily made House feel any safer. 

"Never done that before, have you?" he asked quietly, still staring at the gun. 

"Please," Knowles said. "She's my _wife_." 

House slowly replaced the receiver. 

"I assume you have a plan?" he asked after a moment of silence. "You know, some feasible way of getting me out of the building at gunpoint?" As he spoke, he fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone, the movement hidden by the desk. He couldn't punch in a phone number without looking, but he could hit redial-- the last outgoing number had been one of his team's pagers, though he'd be damned if he could remember which. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. 

Knowles moistened his lips but said nothing. House sighed, glancing from the gun to the glass door, and Knowles caught the look, twisting around to hide the gun from view of the hallway. 

Fabulous. House would be doing much better if he could actually hide his disdain for idiots. Too bad Knowles was one of those rare people who managed to pick up on it. 

"Look," House said, "you're obviously not very good at this. Why don't we just say nice try and forget this ever happened?" 

"Get up," Knowles said finally, his voice low and hoarse. 

"Was that a no?" House stood with some difficulty. "Great, step one accomplished. What's step two?" 

At which point Chase knocked lightly on the glass door before poking his head in the office. "What's up?" 

Chase. Of course. House groaned inwardly. The only non-American on his staff, and _he_ was the last number called. 

Well, Chase made much of his misspent youth. Perhaps it had included bad American thrash metal bands as well as drugs and debauchery. 

"I'll be gone for a few hours," he said. "Page Drs. Schaeffer and Lowell. Tell them to keep an eye on Scott Ian for me." 

Chase looked blank. "Who?" 

"The _patient_," House said, with as great significance as he dared. Knowles wasn't looking; he waggled his eyebrows meaningfully. "Scott Ian. Look it up." 

"I don't--" 

But it was too late. Knowles had been glancing back and forth between them, brow furrowed; then the penny visibly dropped, and he yelled "Shut up!" and raised the gun, aiming at Chase. 

Chase jumped about two feet. "Whoa, hey!" His hands shot up. 

"_Idiot_," House muttered. He'd thrown the dice, gambled on John Knowles not knowing the lead guitarist of Anthrax. There was a reason he only gambled with patients' lives. He'd never really had much of a poker face. 

Wide-eyed, Chase looked about twelve. His gaze darted between House and the gun. "Which one?" 

"Both of you," House snapped. He glared at Knowles. "Look at him. He doesn't have the first clue what I'm talking about. He's _British_." 

"Australian," Chase murmured. 

"Do we need to have this conversation again?" 

Knowles looked like shit. "I don't care," he said, his voice shaky. "You're both coming." 

"Well, sure," House said. "You can't let him go _now_. Not after you've waved a gun in his face. Nice going, Slick." 

"Dr. House," Chase said, in a remarkably steady voice, "what the _hell_ is going on?" 

House glanced at Knowles. "Whaddya say? Do we have time for the requisite expository scene, or are you kind of in a rush right now?" 

"Come here," Knowles said to Chase, ignoring him. The gun was trained on Chase's chest, Chase's body mostly blocking it from view of the hallway. There wasn't a lot of traffic in this wing in the first place, and most people who passed by didn't bother glancing into House's office, having learned from bitter experience to avoid him at all costs. Which was usually the way he liked it. 

Knowles's eyes were fixed on Chase too. As Chase started to move, House reached for his cell phone again, but Knowles barked at him, "Hands on your desk." 

"Teacher," House murmured, "leave the kid alone." 

"Shut _up_," Knowles snapped, and grabbed Chase. One hand went to the doctor's shoulder, the other shoved the gun under his white coat. Chase's hands were still in the air, and Knowles said, "For God's sake, put your hands down." 

Chase lowered his hands and held them awkwardly at his side, visibly uncertain what to do with them. With the gun hidden, the two could almost pass as good friends. Extremely snuggly good friends. 

"Beautiful," House said. "If I had a camera, I'd use that photo for my Christmas cards." 

"Here's how it's going to work," Knowles said. "We're going to walk out of here, get whatever you need to treat my wife, and then go downstairs to the garage. If you try anything, if you talk to _anyone_, I shoot him." 

Chase turned his head slowly and gave Knowles a faintly terrified look, obviously not trusting House to value his life enough to keep his mouth shut. 

"I find your expression deeply insulting," House said, grabbing his jacket and his cane. "And also insanely amusing. So who's up for a field trip?" 

Chase glanced at him, looking more terrified, not less, and House mouthed, _Just go with it_. He wouldn't have chosen to go along with Knowles if he didn't have to, but after all, the man just wanted them to cure his wife, not rob a bank. Or so House hoped. 

Besides, with Chase along, maybe he wouldn't be the one crawling through the air ducts after all. 

End Part Two 

_Love it? Let me know. Hate it? Let me know anyway._


	3. Part Three

"Safe From Harm" (3/4)  
by Maya Tawi 

They took Chase's car. Knowles made Chase drive, while he himself sat in the passenger seat and relegated House to the back-- but only after engaging the child locks in the back doors. House felt insulted by the implication. What, did Knowles think he was going to jump and roll out the door in the middle of 95 or something? 

Chase had visibly relaxed once they'd exited the building without incident, going so far as to shoot occasional annoyed looks in Knowles's direction, though House could have told him that the danger would only increase the farther they got from other people. It was possible that Knowles was psychotic enough to fire a gun in the middle of a large hospital with hundreds of people around, but not very likely. Now that it was just the three of them, it was a very different story. 

House could have told Chase that, but he didn't. He needed Chase thinking clearly and not panicking. 

He stared out the window as Chase drove, idly committing the route to memory. After about fifteen minutes of silence, apart from Knowles's muttered directions, he couldn't take it anymore. 

"I can't believe you've never heard of the band Anthrax," he said. 

Chase didn't seem surprised when he spoke; he was probably wondering why House had waited so long. He just rolled his eyes in the rearview mirror and said, "Why, have you heard of Dead Baby Meat?" 

House opened his mouth. 

"Never mind," Chase said quickly. "You're not normal." 

"Normality is overrated," House said. 

In the passenger seat, Knowles raised the gun and said, "Shut up and drive." 

Chase glanced at him. House was pretty sure he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes again.

* * *

"I could've driven, you know," House said about twenty minutes later. 

"_No_," Chase and Knowles said in unison. 

House scowled at the mirror. "I do have a car. I'm not _incapable_." 

"You're a menace," Chase said, sliding the car smoothly into the next lane. "I've seen you drive." 

"At least I don't drive on the wrong side of the road." 

"Neither do I," Chase pointed out. 

"Yeah," House said. "Well. You should." 

"I'll take that under advisement." 

"Your eyes are gonna stick if you keep rolling 'em like that. Fair warning." 

"Shut up--" Knowles began. 

"And drive," Chase finished with a sigh. "Yeah, I know."

* * *

Robert Chase, House decided, was unflappable. He'd been startled at first, granted, but as time went on and House didn't get him killed, his natural imperturbability had begun to reassert itself. It made it annoying to try and get a rise out of him, as House had been doing with a general lack of success for over a year now, but he supposed it made Chase the ideal person to get kidnapped with. 

Still, at least Wilson would have played I Spy with him. 

"I spy," he called cheerfully, "a brand-new paint job in your immediate future." 

Chase jerked the wheel to the side to avoid the yawning ditch immediately ahead, and swore loudly when yet another branch scraped a long, vicious-sounding gouge along the side of his car. "You're a bloody psychic," he said through clenched teeth. 

"I bet you wish we'd taken my car now, don't you?" 

Limbs continued to batter the small, sporty car as they bounced slowly along the winding path. Beneath them, the suspension groaned in protest. Finally Chase hit the brakes in frustration, and the car jerked to a stop. 

"That's it," he said. "There's no road here. I can't drive any farther." 

"Fine," Knowles said, swinging the gun back and forth between the two of them. "Get out. We're walking." 

"_I'm_ not," House said. 

Chase was affronted. "What, just leave it here?" 

"Oh, sure," House said. "I'm sure there are roving bands of forest-dwelling auto thieves out there just _waiting_ to make off with your precious wheels." 

Knowles drew back the hammer of the gun with a loud click. "We," he pronounced slowly. "Are all. Walking." 

House eyed the gun and kept his mouth shut. If they'd been vulnerable earlier in the parking lot, they were ten times more so out here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods in every direction. 

Chase looked around for the first time, possibly having similar thoughts. "Where the hell are we?" 

"Bumfuck, New York," House said, before Knowles could respond. "Or thereabouts. Let me guess-- lake house?" He glanced at Knowles. "Of course you have a lake house. So where's the lake?" 

"Get out," Knowles said. 

"You have to let me out," House explained, with exaggerated patience. "Remember?" 

Once outside, he slammed the door shut and leaned against the car, fishing in his pocket for his Vicodin. He looked around, wrinkling his nose. Too much nature. Too much fresh air. His lungs already hurt. 

"So," he began, poising to swallow, and Knowles looked at him in horror and demanded, "What are you _doing_?" 

House froze with his hand cupped in front of his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chase on the other side of the car, slowly straightening from where he had been bent over, examining the damage to his paint job and muttering to himself. 

"Going for my afternoon jog," House bit out finally, when Knowles's eyes narrowed. "What does it _look_ like?" 

"It looks like my wife's life is in danger and you're popping pills!" 

Chase coughed and said in a low voice, "Listen, you really don't want to--" 

"That first part isn't exactly _my_ fault, is it?" House interrupted loudly. "Actually, come to think about it, neither is the second. You got a problem, take it up with my leg muscles. Oh wait, you can't-- _they're dead_." He swallowed the pill with a savage flourish, glaring a challenge at Knowles the whole time. 

"--go there," Chase finished with a sigh. 

Knowles threw his hands up. House watched Chase eye the gun, poising to tackle him, and then realize that he was still on the wrong side of the car. It was kind of funny. "Great. I manage to get my hands on the one doctor with a pill habit." 

"I highly doubt he's the only _one_," Chase muttered. The sarcasm in his voice would have perked up House considerably, if they hadn't been talking about him. 

"_So_," he said again, and closed his eyes and willed the Vicodin to start working. "Where's the patient?" 

The long walk through the woods was long, arduous, and best forgotten. Chase walked beside him, tactfully keeping his mouth shut when House stumbled or slowed to a snail's pace, and Knowles followed behind with the gun. The second time House had to grab at Chase's arm for balance, he felt compelled to mutter, "Sorry 'bout this," and then cleared his throat loudly. 

Chase heard, damn him. Ears like a _bat_. "Why, Dr. House, was that an apology?" 

"Treasure the moment," House growled. "It won't happen again." 

"Don't worry. I'll write all about it in my diary." 

"Even if it is all your fault for being a cultural illiterate." 

Chase smiled a little. "Now that's the House we all know and tolerate." 

House studied him for a moment, then said, "You're really not mad." 

It was an observation, not a question, but Chase answered anyway. "At you? No. The man with the gun, now..." 

"You're way too forgiving. It's not healthy." 

Chase smiled again, an odd little smile that he couldn't quite read. "Dr. House, has it ever occurred to you that I genuinely don't mind your temperament?" 

House stared at him. "_No_." 

"Right, well, I hate to break it to you, but you'll have to try harder." 

"Don't think I won't," House muttered, still staring. 

"Oh, believe me, I don't." 

"You bizarre freak of nature." 

"Coming from you, that's saying a lot." 

"Hurry up!" Knowles yelled behind them. 

"Bite me!" House yelled back. 

It felt _good_.

* * *

As it turned out, there was no need for anybody to crawl through an air duct. This rather disappointed House, who found that he had been looking forward to seeing Chase get mussed and dusty. 

That, he decided after a moment, was probably not a sentiment worthy of deeper investigation. 

Instead, Knowles left them just beyond the treeline as he hiked across the clearing to a large cabin, perched as advertised on the edge of a sparkling blue lake. They could watch his progress as he approached the armed man at the door, but no one at the cabin would see them unless they knew to look. 

Chase could have run then, House knew, back through the woods to the car, and from thence back to Jersey and what could charitably be called civilization. He didn't, and though House hadn't really expected him to, he discovered that he was unreasonably grateful for the fact nonetheless. 

There was only one way to express such gratitude. "Run, you idiot," he hissed. 

"You're welcome," Chase answered absently, his gaze fixed on the cabin. 

With a sigh, House turned to observe as well. The gunman wasn't his old friend not-Knowles, but rather someone new, and House wondered just how large this operation was, and how many pockets these people had their hands in. As he watched, Knowles reached the cabin and said something to the gunman, gesturing widely. 

"Oh, sure, wave your hands some more," House muttered. "_That's_ not suspicious." 

But apparently the gunman was dumber than he looked-- no mean feat-- and after a few seconds of discussion, he started off down the driveway, away from the cabin, and Knowles hurried back to where House and Chase were waiting. 

"Come on," he said. "We've got ten minutes." 

House rolled his eyes. "Oh, great. I'll just go ahead and set up the _express_ IV drip." 

"You know," Chase murmured, "your eyes are gonna stick." 

Knowles set his jaw. "We'll take her out of here if we have to." 

"Right," House said, pointedly ignoring Chase. "Well. I'm not carrying anyone." 

The cabin was one sprawling story, thank Christ; House had already struggled up one stairway during this case, and that was one too many for a lifetime. Knowles led them through the foyer to a small, darkened bedroom, and House only had time for a vague impression of exposed beams, high arched ceilings, and tasteful, stylish furniture before his attention was riveted by the patient on the bed. 

"We meet again," House observed, as he limped across the room. "You're like a bad penny. Or a nagging cough." 

"Doctor... House," Shirley Knowles said weakly, and closed her eyes, seemingly exhausted by the effort. 

"Got it in one." House gave her a critical, head-to-toe look. She looked better than the last time he'd seen her; at least she wasn't vomiting blood. Yet. Studying her, House felt a rare burst of sympathy with a patient. Knowles-- Shirley-- had been dosed with antibiotics twice, enough to kill off some of the bacteria, but not to knock out the spores. Essentially, she was embarking on her third foray into the Wonderful World of Anthrax, and despite her husband's best intentions, House rather doubted there was an end in sight. 

For one thing, there were bad signs-- the stiff way she held her neck on the pillow, the near-imperceptible shivers... House pressed a hand to her forehead. It was cold. 

"Shit," he said simply, and turned to Chase. "What do you think?" 

Chase felt her face and nodded. "Definitely meningeal. Even if it's not, the anthrax is too far advanced. This woman needs to be in an ICU." 

House gave him a quick, sharp look. Either he was a better diagnostician than House had previously given him credit for, or-- far more likely-- he, too, was thinking two steps ahead. The important thing was to get Shirley Knowles to a hospital where they could properly treat her. It was far less important to be truthful with her husband about the prognosis of her disease. 

Especially when he was the one who'd made her sick in the first place. 

House glanced at Knowles. "Well? It's your show. What's the script say now?" 

Knowles chewed on his lower lip, looking torn. 

"Tick-tock," House added nastily. 

Knowles started to pace back and forth. House caught Chase's eye and nodded, and Chase reached into his bag for the Levaquin injections they had procured from the pharmacy. 

After Chase had dosed Shirley and wiped the injection site with a sterilizing pad, he glanced up. "Seriously, man, she's dying. If you want to save her, we have to get her out of here." 

Knowles spun and stared at him, searching for signs of deception. Chase just stared back, guileless and wide-eyed and unruffled. 

House was, despite himself, impressed. 

"_Fine_," Knowles said finally, and worked his jaw as though trying to swallow something inedible. "Do it." 

"Don't do _us_ any favors," House muttered. 

Chase looked at Knowles's gun, then at House's cane, and met House's bland shrug with a sigh and an eye-roll. He pulled back the comforter from the bed and started to gather the top sheet around Shirley, speaking to her in a low voice as he did. 

"Hurry _up_," Knowles said. 

Chase shot him a pointed look. "Do _you_ want to carry her?" 

Knowles bared his teeth. In Chase's arms, Shirley gagged, leaned over, and vomited on his leather jacket. 

House winced. 

Chase, however, barely reacted. "Come on, up you get," he murmured, and hoisted her somewhat awkwardly against his shoulder. "We're going for a walk, now, and it won't be fun, but you'll feel better at the end. Okay?" 

"I like... you... better," Shirley managed to say. 

Chase hid a laugh with a cough, and House remarked, "He is quite the ladykiller, isn't he? Oh, I'm sorry-- that word would be better used to describe your husband, wouldn't it?" 

"Shut up!" Knowles yelled. He swiveled the gun back towards House. "You, out the back door. You--" He gestured to Chase. "--follow him. _You_--" House again-- "any more smart remarks, and I _will_ shoot you." 

Somehow House managed to keep his mouth shut through sheer force of will, and he simply raised his hands in mock-surrender. Chase gave him a dubious look. House narrowed his eyes in return. They'd better not start planning his funeral just yet. 

The back door opened on five steps that descended to a path around the lake. House navigated them slowly and carefully, hating the helplessness and vulnerability he felt. 

He hated it even more when a figure rounded the corner of the cabin and pointed yet another gun at him. And this time, it _was_ not-Knowles, with the second gunman, not-not-Knowles, close behind. 

If these people were going to keep pointing guns at him, he'd have to come up with more creative nicknames for them. Not-Knowles, he decided, looked a little like General Patton, while not-not-Knowles reminded him of Sid Vicious, for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on. It would do for now. 

"Back up the stairs," Patton said, and House gritted his teeth and began the slow, laborious process of ascending the five steps he'd just taken such great pains to descend. 

"It was the hand-waving, wasn't it?" he asked Sid as he climbed, to distract himself more than anything else. "I knew it was too much." 

Sid inexplicably failed to indulge him. Clearly _Matlock_ hadn't got everything right. 

"Drop the cane," Patton said, once he reached the top of the steps. 

House just looked at him. "You know, I could swear I've heard that one before--" 

A loud click. "Do it." 

House narrowed his eyes into his best glare, with no discernible effect. There was no graceful way to lower his cane gently to the ground, so finally he just dropped it on the path and-- well, "prayed" was inaccurate-- _hoped_ it wouldn't get scuffed. 

Patton, it seemed, had other ideas. "Kick it over here." 

House looked at the cane, his leg, and finally fixed Patton with a long, withering look. 

Patton was undeterred. "John," he said, and Knowles edged forward and kicked the cane down the steps. 

House watched in helpless, impotent fury as Patton lowered his gun, took aim, and fired. 

The report was deafening, and he couldn't help but flinch. Beside him, Chase jumped, nearly dropping his cargo, and fumbled with Shirley Knowles for a few long seconds, which would have been amusing had House not still been blinded by rage. 

That had been his favorite cane, the heavy one with the solid wood handle. Now, it was two splintered pieces on the ground, blown apart by a bullet. 

"The next one," Patton said, "goes into the kneecap of the first person to piss me off." 

House finally found his voice. It never took very long. "In which case that cane might have come in handy. I see you have issues with long-range planning. Did you really think I was likely to whack you with my stick and handily disarm you?" 

Patton smiled coldly and raised the gun again. "Thank you for volunteering." 

"_House_," Chase hissed in alarm. His knuckles were white. 

"Oh, relax," House said. "He's not going to shoot me." 

"Really," Patton said, drawing back the hammer. "Any particular reason, or was that just wishful thinking?" 

House smiled thinly, aware that it wasn't reaching his eyes. "Right leg, please. Unless you intend to carry me, I still need at least one leg to function." 

"_That's_ your plan?" Chase demanded under his breath. "A bullet in your bad leg?" 

"You got a better one?" House retorted, not looking at him. 

Patton didn't lower the gun. But he didn't fire, either. 

House raised his voice. "He's not going to shoot me," he repeated, "because I'm already incapacitated. Obviously I'm not going to climb out the window and run away." 

"You're assuming that would be the point of the exercise," Patton said. 

"Oh my. Well, we know what happens when you assume, although you're doing a perfectly good job of making an ass out of yourself." House smiled again, wider this time. "But more to the point, he's not going to shoot me because he doesn't want to fire that gun if he doesn't have to." 

"Stop talking," Patton said. Any traces of amusement were long gone from his face. 

It wasn't a suggestion House ever had much success in heeding. This time he didn't even try. 

"In fact, if anyone's going to shoot us, it'll be John Boy here." House raised his eyebrows. "That is the plan, isn't it? I bet that gun's registered in his name. He's the one who took us from the hospital, the security tapes will show as much. Right now, Patty here is keeping his options open. He hasn't decided yet whether or not to kill the witnesses-- which would be us, for the slower among you-- but if he does, it'll be our good friend John who's implicated, while Itchy and Scratchy ride off into the sunset together. Very romantic. That's not a suggestion," he added, for Patton's benefit as much as Chase's. "I'm sure he'd shoot us if he had to. He just doesn't want to." 

John Knowles looked shell-shocked. "Phil? You're not-- is he--" 

"Don't feel bad," House said. "You're an amateur. You're obviously not very experienced with crime. If you watched more TV, now--" 

Patton fired. 

For a moment, House genuinely feared that he'd miscalculated for once, that his arrogance had gotten Chase killed-- or, worse, himself. But the bullet didn't hit him, and the body that fell to the ground with a meaty thud wasn't Chase's. 

He made himself wait a beat before he looked down. John Knowles's wide, sightless eyes stared up at him, the bullet hole in his forehead like the legendary third eye come to life. 

Beside him, Chase made a strangled noise, and Shirley Knowles started to slip from his grip. 

"Davey," Patton-- Phil-- murmured, and Sid Vicious skirted around the three of them to Knowles's body, where he crouched and pried the gun from his fingers. Phil kept his gun pointed at House and Chase. 

Acidly Phil said, "Should I tell you the rest of my cunning plan, or would you like to finish doing it for me?" 

House found his voice. "There's no need to be flippant." 

Patton smiled. House just couldn't think of him as Phil; it was too innocuous, too buttoned-down a name. Probably wasn't his real name anyway. "I don't want to kill you two. You got that much right. But make no mistake, I will do it if I have to." He nodded at Sid, who actually _did_ look like a Davey, pizza-face and all. "And now I have John's gun, and he can conveniently disappear. So I suggest you make a serious attempt to refrain from pissing me off." 

"You know," House said, "I never did like you." 

"Mutual," Patton said. He gestured with the gun. "Back inside, please." 

House followed Chase and his bundle back into the house. His leg was starting to throb again, and without the cane, his progress was even slower than before. The skin between his shoulder blades itched, expecting a bullet that didn't come. 

Yet. 

End Part Three 

_Comments? Yes, please._


	4. Part Four

"Safe From Harm" (4/4)  
by Maya Tawi 

Patton and Sid directed them first to the bedroom, where Chase gently lowered Shirley back to the rumpled bedclothes. She had mercifully passed out, and was as yet unaware of her husband's murder. House couldn't help thinking it wasn't much of a loss. If nothing else, it saved her the time and expense of a messy divorce. He supposed _My husband fed me anthrax_ was something the judges didn't hear every day. 

The real trouble came after Sid confiscated Chase's bag, including the Levaquin injections, and took their cell phones. Then he went through House's pockets under Patton's watchful eye, while House alternately seethed and made smart remarks. 

"What's this?" Sid asked, as his fingers finally, inevitably, closed over the bottle of Vicodin. 

"Well," House said, "I wasn't gonna say anything, but I _am_ happy to see you." 

They ignored him, Patton waving Sid to his side and then examining the bottle-- unlabeled, as usual-- as House watched with growing dismay. He was getting very, very close to needing another dose. 

"Medicine," Patton said finally. 

House pointed at him. "Good eye." 

Patton dropped the bottle in his pocket. House gritted his teeth, feeling Chase's worried eyes on him. 

As calmly and reasonably as he could, he explained, "Those are for me, not her. They're painkillers. I need them." 

"We'll get you some Tylenol," Patton said, unconcerned. 

House laughed. It sounded hysterical to his own ears. No wonder Chase looked frightened at the sound. Or maybe that was just the shock of actually hearing House laugh for once. 

It happened. 

"_Tylenol_," he choked out finally between giggles, taking a perverse enjoyment in the bewildered looks on Sid's and Patton's faces. "That's-- oh, that's just great. Tylenol. Why didn't I think of that? Hell, forget the meds, all I need's a hot pack, don't you think?" 

"You're the doctor," Patton said after a moment, watching him carefully. 

House's amusement vanished. Calm and reasonable hadn't worked. 

"Yeah," he growled. "I _am_ the doctor. And if you don't give me back my Vicodin, I will snap my own leg off and beat you over the head with it, because believe me, that could _not_ hurt any more than it will if I go another half hour without my pills." 

Patton stared at him. House glowered back, deathly serious. 

"Trust me," Chase said. "I'm pretty sure he means it." 

Patton shot Chase a look of death. House was pleased, and a little worried, to see that Chase didn't flinch. The kid had balls, which was a good thing. He also had an exaggerated sense of his own invulnerability, which tended to be less good. House knew as much from bitter experience. 

"Fine," Patton said finally, and lobbed the bottle back to its rightful owner. 

House caught it with reverent hands. "Oh yeah," he breathed. 

Patton gestured to the door with a sarcastic bow. "After you, _Doctors_." 

This time they were shepherded into the bathroom, a gleaming ode to modern convenience. House let out a low whistle as he looked around, still riding high on his victory (though not on the Vicodin-- that would come later), and almost missed the sound of the door locking behind them. 

Chase didn't. He examined the door, bemused. "Who the hell has a bathroom that locks from the outside?" 

"People who plan ahead," House said grimly. The window didn't open either; it was a mosaic of inlaid frosted glass, decorative and extremely useless for their purposes. Even if House had any intention of climbing out a window, which he wasn't quite desperate enough to do yet, the sound of breaking glass would bring their captors running. 

He looked back at Chase, and saw that he had extracted one of his many credit cards from his wallet. 

"Leave it," House said, as Chase started to work the card in between the door and the jamb. 

Chase glanced over his shoulder and stopped, but he didn't withdraw the card. "Why? I can pop this--" 

House rolled his eyes. "Oh, just _think_ for a minute, would you? As long as we're in here, we're safe for now. You go out there now and they might as well just shoot you." He paused. "Though don't get me wrong, I'm a little impressed how good you're getting with the whole lock-picking thing." 

"A little," Chase echoed, sliding the card back into his wallet with visible reluctance. 

"Only a little." House lowered himself carefully onto the toilet, after checking to make sure the cover was down, and propped his leg up on the edge of the tub with a long sigh. "Oh Christ, that feels good." 

He closed his eyes, which unfortunately didn't keep him from being aware of Chase's guilty glance at his leg and the absence of his cane. Chase began, "About that--" 

House didn't open his eyes. "Did you do it?" 

"No," Chase said after a moment. "I was a bit occupied at the time." 

"Like France," House said, "during World War II. So forget it. If anything, this whole thing is my fault." He paused. "Though I prefer to blame it on General Trigger Happy out there." 

"Patton, right?" Chase didn't wait for an answer; House could hear the smile in his voice. "Was that a second apology?" 

"Dream on," House said. He fished one of the hard-won Vicodin out of the bottle and popped it in his mouth. 

"I've never seen someone get shot before," Chase said after a long silence. "Usually I just see what happens after." 

Same for House, although he didn't say so. He had the image of the Wise Older Mentor to play up, after all. "I thought you seemed fairly sanguine about it," he said, and paused. "No pun intended." 

"I expect I'm still in shock," Chase said dryly. 

House opened his eyes finally. Chase's smile was wan and brittle, but it was there. 

"Sit down," House said, waving a gracious hand, as though they were in his sitting room and not the bathroom of a dead man. "You're giving me vertigo." 

Chase scoffed, but perched on the edge of the tub, careful not to bump House's outstretched leg. After a moment, he wrinkled his nose and shrugged off his vomit-encrusted jacket into the tub behind him. 

"Yeah," House said, "that was gonna be my next suggestion." 

Chase heaved a mournful sigh. "That was my favorite jacket. It'll never be the same." 

"Oh please," House said, unsympathetic. "You'll just go right out and buy a new one." 

Chase didn't argue the point, saying only, "It's the principle of the thing." 

House thought about taking a second Vicodin, but decided against it. He had to stay sharp, stay on his toes (_Ha, good luck with that_, a sarcastic internal voice piped up, not too different from his external voice). Dulled to manageable levels, the pain helped, gave him an edge. 

Then Chase asked the same question that was preying on his own mind. "Why didn't they just kill us?" 

House sighed. Chase didn't press him, just waited for the answer he knew would come. 

"They probably will," House said finally. "Eventually. When they've got all their ducks in a row, then they'll shoot 'em down." 

Chase nodded, like he'd been expecting as much. "So we're dead either way." 

"Not _yet_," House said. 

Chase looked amused. "You'll, what, come up with some brilliant plan at the last minute?" 

House arched an eyebrow. "You doubt me?" 

"No," Chase admitted after a moment. "I kind of hate to say it, but I don't." 

He narrowed his eyes. "Why?" he asked bluntly. 

"Excuse me?" 

House ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke. "Foreman's the one most likely to criticize me, Cameron's most likely to try and understand me, and you're most likely to trust me. Why is that?" 

"Foreman suggested Stockholm Syndrome," Chase said after a moment. 

"Think there's something to it?" 

"What answer are you fishing for here?" 

"Are you asking so you can give me that answer, or the opposite one?" 

He watched Chase digest the question. 

"I think," Chase said, "that if you've got a Plan B, now would be a good time to share." 

"Haven't you learned yet?" House asked, a little disappointed that he wasn't playing along. "I'm not very good at sharing." 

Chase leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and lowering his head. 

"We're dead," he said. 

House studied him. Then he held out the bottle of Vicodin and asked, "Want one?"

* * *

"You mean you _never_ asked her out?" House asked, in frank disbelief. 

Chase seemed to be looking anywhere but at him. "Well, it's obviously a bad idea, I mean, we work together--" 

"Do you have some kind of degenerative eye disease?" House paused. "Or is Foreman more your type?" 

"No!" Chase exclaimed, looking flustered. "I mean, yeah, she's hot, but professionally speaking--" 

"She turned you down, didn't she?" 

"Flat," Chase admitted. 

House nodded, feeling smug. 

"Know any good guessing games?" he asked after a moment. 

Chase leaned forward very slowly and rested his forehead on his knees.

* * *

"I spy--" 

"House," Chase said, "shut up." 

House regarded him with mild surprise. Chase pressed his lips together, obviously wondering if he'd crossed some kind of line. 

"You know," House said, "I could fire you for that. Insubordination." 

"But you won't," Chase said. Brazening it out. 

"No," House agreed, gazing serenely over Chase's head at the shower curtain. "Not until you screw up." 

He ignored Chase's wide-eyed look. They worked better when they were scared.

* * *

House hauled himself up from the toilet and limped to the door, pressing his ear against it. 

"What are they doing?" Chase asked, watching him. 

He rolled his eyes. "Playing charades. How would I know?" 

"I assume you're not doing that for your health." 

"Shows what you know," House said, straightening again and returning to his seat. "_Everything_ I do is for my health." 

Chase snorted but didn't press him. House wondered, not for the first time, why people always thought he was being sarcastic.

* * *

"Okay," House said, his ear once again pressed against the door. "Go." 

Chase gave him a blank look. "Where?" 

He sighed loudly. "Open the door, Boy Wonder." 

"But you said--" 

"I know what I said, I was there. That was two hours ago. Now it's not." 

"A compelling argument," Chase said, and stood. "You think the situation's changed?" 

"I _know_ the situation's changed," House said. "And if you young people nowadays didn't destroy your eardrums with your Dead Baby Meat, you would too. One of our friends just left." He paused. "Probably the General. He seems like the micromanagement type." 

"Why would he leave?" 

"Again," House said, "with the you thinking I'm psychic. Not that I don't enjoy the imputation of omnipotence--" 

"So you don't have any idea." 

House rolled his eyes. "Of course I do. He's probably disposing of the body." 

"That's all I asked," Chase said mildly, though a bit of an edge was starting to creep into his voice. 

"Come on, open the door," House said, ignoring it. "Chop chop." 

Chase folded his arms across his chest. "And then what?" 

House stared at him. "And then you make a run for it. What, do I need to write out detailed instructions? Should I draw you a map? Hold your hand?" 

"I have a better idea," Chase said, eyeing the door. 

House scoffed. "Better than mine?" 

"Strange but true." Chase climbed into the shower and drew the curtain in front of him. House blinked. When Chase spoke again, his voice echoed weirdly in the stall. "Break the window." 

"Sure," House said. "I'll just throw a rock." Chase's sigh bounced around the tiled room. He yanked the curtain back and held out his vomit-encrusted jacket. "Oh, _much_ better," House said, but he took it and wrapped an unstained sleeve around his fist. He was starting to understand what Chase intended, and he had to admit, it _was_ a better idea. For one thing, it didn't involve leaving him alone at the tender mercies of Sid Vicious. 

He had to ask, first. "You played football, right?" 

"_Real_ football," Chase said. "Not that American crap with the shoulder pads." 

"So you probably weren't a linebacker, then," House said. 

Chase did not dignify that with a response. House sighed, staring thoughtfully at his fist, then at the window, and then swung. 

"Ow," he said, when his fist bounced off the glass. 

Chase sighed again. "Use your elbow." 

"And here I thought Foreman was the juvenile delinquent." But he did, and a hairline crack appeared in the glass. 

The window held out for another few blows, then shattered loudly. 

House sat down on the toilet again. "Ten," he muttered. "Nine. Eight..." 

He didn't have to wait long; at "four", the door banged open and Sid Vicious stood there, staring at him and breathing heavily. "What-- what did you--" 

"He went out the window," House said, gesturing. "I, unfortunately, am not what you'd call spry, so--" 

Sid stormed up to the broken window and peered out, and Chase threw the curtain aside and tackled him. 

House tucked his good leg out of the way and watched the fight with interest. Chase took a few blows to the face and the abdomen, but he seemed to be holding his own. At one point, they fell together into the tub, pulling the shower rod and the curtain down on top of them; Sid disentangled himself first and advanced on House, panting, his hand on his gun. 

"Oh no you don't," House said, raising his hands. "I'm just a spectator." 

And then Chase dragged him down again, and the gun went flying. It clattered against the base of the toilet, and House looked down. 

"Oh," he said, and picked it up. 

He hefted it, judging its weight. Then he gripped it by the barrel, like they did in the movies, and stood and carefully picked his way around the scattered debris to the tub. 

He aimed for the dark-haired head. At the last second, he closed his eyes.

* * *

"You _hit_ me!" 

"Oh, quit your whining," House said. "I hit him too, didn't I?" He paused. "Still trying to work out the physics of that one..." 

Chase pressed his fingers to his temple. They came away bloody. "I'm bleeding!" He sounded outraged. 

House studied him. "You also have a black eye, a split lip, and possible internal injuries. And a little bump on the head and that tiny trickle of blood are the biggest things you can think to complain about?" 

"Yes, well," Chase said acidly, "_he's_ not going to listen to me, is he?" 

"And you think I am?" 

Chase sighed, then gestured at the body sprawled on the floor. "What should we do with him?" 

"Well, lock him in, of course," House said. "I suppose he might try to escape through the window, but that's a chance we'll have to take. Plus he'd probably bleed to death before he got halfway through." The window hadn't shattered cleanly, and if Sid had an ounce of common sense, he would've known there was no way Chase could have gotten through it unscathed. 

Outside the bathroom, Chase locked the door as House slid slowly down the wall to the floor. He stretched his leg out in front of him and dry-swallowed a Vicodin. 

"Go check on the patient," he ordered, once he'd forced it down and could talk again. "And get me a broom or something." He could walk without his cane, but not through the woods, and not as far as Chase's car. 

Chase nodded and left. 

House closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. After a moment, he opened them again and looked down at his hands. 

He'd knocked out the bad guy with the butt of a gun. 

It wasn't nearly as much fun as it looked on TV. His wrist still stung from the impact. 

Chase emerged from the bedroom down the hall, looking pale. "She's in bad shape," he reported. "This isn't just the anthrax." 

House nodded and began the laborious process of standing up. "So it is meningitis after all. Come on, get me something to walk with, unless you want to carry the both of us. And call 911," he added, as an afterthought. 

Chase nodded again and went into the kitchen. About ten seconds later, he backed out of it again, a gun to his forehead. 

Patton was on the other end of the gun. He didn't look happy. 

"Well, crap," House said. 

Patton kept the gun to Chase's forehead as he turned to glare at House. House could see Chase's face now. His eyes were very wide. 

Patton spoke with deliberate calm. "If my associate is dead, then so are you." 

"He's not," House said. "Just... sleepy." He paused. "Where'd you dump the body, the corner 7-11? That took all of like ten minutes." 

"Ah," Patton said, smiling thinly. "Your mistake. I went for supplies. We haven't yet disposed of Mr. Knowles. 

Chase's eyes rolled towards House, glaring. House made an apologetic face, and even kind of meant it. 

If Patton noticed the byplay, he didn't comment. "Doctor," he said to Chase with exaggerated politeness, "if you would please have a seat?" His free hand gestured toward the living room. 

Chase backed up again, still followed by the gun, until his legs hit the front of a high-backed wooden chair. He sat slowly, eyes crossing as he stared at the barrel. 

"Dr. House," Patton said, without taking his eyes off Chase. "There's a grocery bag by the kitchen door. Please fetch the roll of duct tape." 

"Do I get a cookie?" House snapped. 

"You get to keep your coworker. _Sans_ ventilation." 

"He's more of an employee, really," House began, and then, as Patton pulled back the hammer, he raised his hands and said quickly, "Okay, okay. Duct tape." 

He limped into the kitchen, heart pounding, and found the bag by the door as advertised. He eyed the telephone across the room. Could he get to it without Patton noticing? 

"I disconnected the phone lines," Patton called from the hallway. "Get on with it." 

House swore under his breath and picked up the bag. 

Along with the duct tape, he found paper towel rolls, a box of black garbage bags, and a wrapped bloody steak. He felt his mouth twist. "I suppose the chainsaw is in the trunk?" he called back. 

"Hurry, Dr. House," was Patton's only reply. "My trigger finger is getting tired." 

House rolled his eyes, but grabbed the duct tape and hobbled back to the hallway as quickly as he could. "This duct tape?" he asked, holding up the roll. "Not, you know, a different kind--" 

"Bring it to me," Patton said. 

He made House sit across the room on the sofa as he taped Chase to the chair. As soon as the gun was away from Chase's head, Chase's wide-eyed terror subsided into glowering resentment, and he glared wordlessly up at Patton through his eyelashes. 

"Now you," Patton said finally, and House held up his hands again. 

"Hey," he said. "I'm not going anywhere." 

Patton gestured with the gun, and after a moment he sighed and stood. 

House was taped to one of the dining room chairs, and he managed not to comment until he saw Patton hovering uncertainly over his right leg. 

"Oh, go on," he said. "It won't bite." 

Patton scowled at him, then yanked the tape hard over his leg, jostling it. He managed to bite back his yelp. 

"There," Patton said finally, standing and dusting off his pants with a vague air of accomplishment. "Don't go anywhere." 

Only then did he retreat down the hallway to the bathroom, to check on Sid Vicious. 

"Well," House said, after a long silence. "That went well." 

"Any more bright ideas?" Chase's voice was bitter. 

House gave him a long, level stare. "Actually, that one was _your_ idea." 

"Shut up," Chase said, and this time he didn't look sorry for saying it.

* * *

It was several hours later when Chase broke the silence. He had been watching the sunset out the bay window; House was watching the VCR clock and counting the passage of time by the gradually increasing pain in his leg. 

Chase's voice was soft and almost accentless. "What are they waiting for?" 

House tilted his head and listened to the distant retching sounds from the bedroom down the hall. 

"They're waiting for her to die," he said. 

"Does it bother you," Chase asked, after another, briefer, silence, "that if you'd recognized it when she first came in, she'd be on her way to being cured now?" 

House considered it. 

"No," he said. 

"Why not?" 

"Because I highly doubt it would've been that easy." 

Chase narrowed his eyes. 

"But you were wrong," he said; despite his inflection, it sounded more like a question than an accusation. "And usually that pisses you off royally." 

House opened his mouth, fully intending to say something pithy and wise and inspirational-- maybe something about medicine being an art, not a science, and they were only as good as their palettes, and if he thought about it for a few minutes he might even come up with something that could plausibly mean-- and then he frowned and cocked his head, listening again. 

Chase was still waiting for an answer, so House said absently, "I've been meditating," and closed his eyes. "Do you hear that?" 

"What, the vomiting? It's been going on for a while now--" 

"Yeah, I _know_. I meant--" 

"_Davey!_" Patton bellowed from the kitchen. 

House smiled, his eyes still closed. 

"I do believe," he said, "that things are starting to go pear-shaped." 

"_What?_" 

House opened his eyes and started to answer, but Patton stomped into the room, breathless and red-faced. He was holding his gun. 

"Which one of you called the cops?" he demanded. 

"Didn't I tell you?" House said. "I got a tiny phone implanted in my ear. It's the newest thing." 

Patton hesitated, considering this, and House's estimation of his IQ plummeted about fifty points. 

"What are you on about?" Chase demanded, still looking lost, the poor boy. He was also starting to look a tad pissy. "We've been right here, you _put_ us right here, so unless Dr. House has some psychic abilities he hasn't shared with the rest of us--" 

"Which would probably explain a lot," House said. 

He cocked his head again; the sirens were coming closer. And now Chase heard them too, and his eyes went wide. 

Davey appeared in the doorway, sporting an impressive collection of facial bruises and smears of blood across the front of his shirt. "I brought the car around. We gotta move, now." 

"Don't mind us," House said. "We'll just wait here." 

"Nice try," Patton said grimly, pulling a knife from somewhere around his waist. "You're coming with us." 

He cut House free first, then held the gun on him and handed him the knife. House gritted his teeth as he bent awkwardly over Chase's chair and cut his tape. 

"Kick the knife back to me," Patton said, and House handed it to Chase. Chase scowled, dropped the knife, and kicked it across the room. 

Patton gestured with the gun. "Out the door," he said. "Single file. You first, Dr. House." 

As House brushed past Chase, he hissed, "Don't get in the car." 

"I have another choice?" The irritation in his voice was underlain with real fear. 

"You'll think of something," House said. 

"_Now_," Patton said. 

House limped slowly into the hallway. As he passed the bedroom, he saw Sid Vicious struggling with the prone Mrs. Knowles. 

Outside, it was almost completely dark. House stopped in the doorway and blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust. 

"Move it," Patton snapped behind him. 

"Excuse me, but you shot my fucking _cane_," House retorted. "Please keep all speed-related bitching to your own damn self." 

"Move, or I shoot your friend in the kneecap and you can both take your sweet time." 

"_House_," Chase hissed. 

House moved. 

He could see the lights now, strobing through the trees as the police cars sped down the road beyond the woods. They passed the driveway and the sirens started to fade, and House felt himself quietly and discreetly begin to panic. 

And then he glanced in the direction of the retreating cops, which also happened to be the direction from which they'd come tromping through the woods, and suddenly things started making a lot more sense. 

"They're passing us," Sid Vicious said behind them, sounding surprised. 

"Bugger me," Chase muttered. 

"Here?" House asked, putting a hand to his chest. "Now?" 

Somewhere in the distance, the sirens cut off. 

"What now, Chief?" House asked. 

"Keep going," Patton said grimly, prodding him in the back with the gun. "They might come back." 

House rolled his eyes and began to slowly descend the front steps. His mind was racing. 

Chase clomped down the steps and started to brush past him, and House grabbed his sleeve. "When I go down," he said under his breath, "run." 

Chase stared at him. "You-- what?" 

"_Run_, you twit!" 

"Yes, and run where, exactly?" 

"It doesn't matter! Five minutes, that's all we need--" 

"Dr. House," Patton said, "you're trying my patience." 

"And, apparently, failing," House said. He waited until Chase was a good distance away, then descended to the last step with rather more force than he'd intended. It had the desired effect, but unfortunately it also hurt like a bitch. 

He collapsed with a grunt of pain, and at the last minute managed to fall backwards against the steps, instead of forward into the grass. Which didn't do his back any favors, but he did knock Patton off-balance with his wildly flailing arms, and Patton stepped back into Sid and his ailing bundle, and House was starting to remember why he used to like bowling so much. 

He raised his head with a groan and squinted into the distance; he'd cracked his skull on the steps, another unintended consequence, and things were starting to look a little fuzzy. He did see a vaguely Chase-shaped object, with a vaguely Chase-like shock of blond hair on top, standing and gaping at him like a deer in the headlights. But it couldn't be Chase, because Chase wasn't _retarded_. 

_Go, you idiot,_ he mouthed, closing his eyes and pressing a hand to the back of his skull. 

Either Chase was unusually proficient in lip-reading, or his expression conveyed the same message, because when he opened his eyes Chase was fleet-footing it across the yard toward the woods. 

"Jesus, Mary, and the carpenter," Patton growled. He leapt over House's prone body and charged after Chase. 

House tipped his head back to meet the gaze of a bewildered Sid Vicious. 

"That boy," he said with a sigh. "They're so high-spirited at that age, don't you think?" 

Sid bit his lip. "Get up," he ordered, fumbling with the still-unconscious Shirley Knowles. He was, House realized, trying to reach for his gun without dropping her. 

"Relax," House said, sitting up. He touched the sore spot on the back of his head again, and his fingers came away daubed with red. He figured as long as he wasn't gushing anything, he was fine. "I'm the well-behaved one, remember?" 

"Get in the car," Sid said, giving up on the gun. 

"Certainly, sir. Shall I hold the door for you?" He levered himself slowly and painfully to his feet. His right leg was throbbing angrily, unhappy with his little trick. He gave it a couple Vicodin to shut it up. 

He'd just reached the car door when they heard the shouts. 

Chase's was first, a distant, unintelligible yelp of pain that made House's stomach twist-- but there hadn't been a shot, so he couldn't be hurt too badly. Then Patton, with an answering yell. 

And then, the blessedly unmistakable cry of: "_Police! Freeze!_" 

House grinned savagely at Sid. The young man looked unwell. 

He leaned forward and said, "You might want to run now."

* * *

House didn't know how Wilson had convinced the police to let him ride along, but somehow he did. He'd checked Chase's injuries and pronounced them non-life-threatening, and was now probing at the wound on the back of House's head, as House sat in the backseat of a police car, his legs stretched out the open door and resting in the dirt in front of him. 

"If I recall correctly," Detective Schaeffer said, swaggering up to them with a glower, "I believe I told you to stay out of this." 

House returned her glare with interest. "Yes, well, next time I'm kidnapped at gunpoint, I'll be sure to tell the bad guys that the police have kindly requested they refrain. I'm sure that'll shut 'em right up. _Ow_," he added, twisting around to scowl at Wilson. "Did you forget how opposable thumbs work?" 

"Big baby," Wilson said, unruffled. He sponged away the last of the blood, as House grumbled to himself, and then decreed, "You'll be fine. It's just a cut." 

"Well, thank God you mauled my scalp in order to tell me that." 

Schaeffer sighed. "Nothing I say is gonna sink in, is it?" 

"Nothing has so far," Wilson said. 

House pointed at the road beyond the trees. "Go save a puppy, James." 

"I told you, I already took care of Chase," Wilson said with a grin. 

"Speak of the linebacker himself," House added, as Chase started to drift towards them, away from Officer Lowell and some other uniforms. Sid and the General were handcuffed in the backs of two squad cars, glaring out the windows. House was impressed despite himself; given Schaeffer's bulk, he hadn't expected her to move fast enough to tackle the fleeing Sid. 

Chase made a pissy face at the comment. "_Real_ football, I said," he reminded House. 

"I was speaking metaphorically," House said. 

Chase just rolled his eyes. He was pressing a towel full of ice to the bruise under his left eye, and his hair straggled limply into his face. He was also limping a little. The shout House had heard had apparently been Chase tripping over something in the woods. It was somehow refreshing to know that, despite his general medical competence, Chase could still behave like a dumb blonde in a horror movie. Even the hair fit. 

"How'd you find us, anyway?" Chase asked Schaeffer, leaning back against the side of the car. 

Schaeffer opened her mouth, but House beat her to the punch. "You, actually." 

Chase blinked. "Me?" 

"You," House agreed, "and your exorbitant spending habits. You swank bastard, your car has anti-theft satellite tracking, doesn't it?" 

Chase blinked again. He swiveled his head to stare into the woods, where his car was presumably still parked, and then turned back to House. 

"It does?" he asked finally. 

House grabbed the open car door and hauled himself to his feet. "Check your warranty, boy genius." 

"He's right," Schaeffer said, sounding reluctant to admit it. "As soon as we saw the security tapes, we checked the garage. Dr. Chase's car was gone, so." She shrugged. 

"Saved by conspicuous consumption," House said. 

"There's a lesson in there somewhere," Wilson mused. 

House raised an index finger and pretended to listen to something. "That would be the sound of a million socialists crying out in terror, then suddenly silenced." 

"The Force," Wilson agreed, "is greatly disturbed." 

Schaeffer shook her head. "The Force ain't the only one that's disturbed." 

"As fun as this is," House said, "I really should be going. That patient's not gonna heal herself." One of the squad cars had taken Shirley Knowles away to the hospital, sirens blaring, and he shuddered to think what the monkeys in the ER were doing without his supervision. 

"Siddown and shut up," Schaeffer said, and he blinked. "You're not going anywhere till we get a full statement from you. Both of you," she added, fixing Chase with a stern look. 

Chase raised his hands in surrender. "Take your time. I'll just stay here and continue to bruise." 

"Now who's the baby?" House turned to Schaeffer without waiting for an answer, though he did take a moment to appreciate Chase's open-mouthed indignation. "Look, I appreciate your situation, I do, but--" 

"But nothing," Schaeffer said. "This case is fucked up enough already. We're doing this one by the book. Get in the goddamn car." 

House opened his mouth, then shut it again. 

"My God," Wilson said, staring at him. "She's rendered you speechless. My world is askew." 

House scowled at him. "A little backup would be appreciated here." 

"Sorry," Wilson said, not sounding sorry at all. "There are other competent doctors in the world besides you. It's hard to accept, I know--" 

"Oh, just gag yourself with your tie, already," House said. "And call Cameron and Foreman, make sure they're there to supervise." 

"Before or after I gag myself?" 

"I'll leave that to your discretion." 

Schaeffer folded her arms across her chest. "Any day now, gentlemen." 

House sighed, recognizing defeat when he saw it-- he faced it often enough from Cuddy, after all-- and got back into the car. Chase limped around to the other side of the car and slid in beside him. 

They sat in silence for a few moments, as Schaeffer ambled over to Lowell and the other cops. Then, staring fixedly at the back of the driver's seat, House muttered, "You did good, you know," and cleared his throat. 

"Yeah, fabulous." Chase sounded depressed. "Very heroic, tripping over a fucking root." 

"Boy," House said, "are you in the wrong place for an ego stroke." 

Chase didn't respond. House sighed. 

"Fine," he said, "your _car_ saved the day. Happy?" 

"Sort of," Chase admitted, after a pause. 

House rolled his eyes. 

"So!" he chirped, after another silence. "Should we get our stories straight?" 

He felt Chase turn slowly and stare at him. 

House tried to look innocent. "What? I'm just saying, if we're going to be interrogated--" 

"Tell the truth," Chase said firmly. 

"Where's the fun in that?" 

"There's the fun of not lying to the police and getting arrested, for one." 

House looked at him narrowly. "Something tells me you're speaking from experience, Mr. Use-Your-Elbow." 

Chase looked away-- guiltily, House thought, and was pleased. "What, exactly, were you planning to lie about?" was all Chase said. 

"_So_ not the point," House said. 

"You're a menace," Chase muttered, but a faint smile was playing around the corners of his lips. 

"You said that already," House pointed out. 

"It hasn't stopped being true." 

House's snappy retort was cut off as Schaeffer and Lowell returned to the car. "Ready?" Schaeffer asked brightly, glancing in the rearview mirror. 

House smiled back, as sweetly as he could. "Can we stop for an ice cream?" 

"So, um," Chase said, leaning forward. "What about my car?" 

"What about it?" Lowell asked, without turning around. 

"For one," Chase said snippily, "it's sitting in the middle of the woods of Bumfuck, New York, quickly gathering rust." 

"Now that's just vulgar," House chided. 

"We'll have it towed," Schaeffer said, turning the key in the ignition and pulling off the lawn onto the dirt driveway. 

"_Towed_?" Chase sputtered. "Out of _here_? God, the bodywork alone--" 

"Oh, quit whining," House said. "At least you still _have_ a car. I have to buy a brand-new cane." 

"You have several!" 

"And that was my favorite." 

Lowell twisted around and stared at them. "Are you two always like this?" 

"We might have to gag _them_," Schaeffer said. 

"Ah," Chase said. "That's really not necessary." 

"I don't know," House said. "This one has real trouble keeping his mouth shut. Really, he's like a little yappy dog--" 

"I'm armed," Schaeffer remarked. 

House sat back and mimed zipping his lips shut. 

"Now look," he said to Chase out of the corner of his mouth. "You got us in trouble with the teacher." 

Chase sighed. "I told you I like you, didn't I?" 

"I do recall something to that effect." 

"I take it all back." 

"Sorry. No takebacks. You _like_ me, you really like me--" 

"Seriously," Schaeffer said. "_Shut up_."

* * *

The Princeton police station was grimy and dank, and smelled like stale coffee and old cigarettes. The interrogation room was painted a pale puke green, a noxious color probably calculated to inflict the maximum torture with a minimum of effort. 

House drummed his fingers impatiently on the table and watched as Schaeffer closed the door. They'd found him a cane, a plastic disposable affair, and it rested across his lap, reassuring even in its negligible weight. 

"Where's Chase?" he asked, as she sat down. 

"Lowell's taking his statement." Schaeffer placed a tape recorder on the table. "I got the short straw." 

House eyed the recorder. "Shouldn't you read me my rights or something?" 

"You're not under arrest, Doctor," Schaeffer said, with a discreet eye-roll. 

"Please. I've seen _Law & Order_. You people say that right before you arrest the poor bastard." 

"Dr. House," Schaeffer said, "believe me, if I could charge you with something, I would. We're just trying to figure out what exactly happened here." 

"More reassuring words, there never were." 

She bared her teeth. "Would you like me to get creative?" 

"Heaven forfend," House said. 

Schaeffer pressed the record button and said, "Start talking. From the beginning." 

"Well, in the beginning," House began, and paused. "Stop me if you've heard this one before." 

She hit pause. "You realize it's well within my authority to order a cavity search." 

"Why, Detective Schaeffer," House said. "I had no idea you felt that way." 

"Behave," she said, and released the pause button. 

House sighed loudly. "John Knowles," he began, "wanted money. He may have thought he _needed_ money, but having seen his charming little cabin by the lake, I find it hard to muster much sympathy. So--" 

Schaeffer hit pause again. "How do you know all this?" 

"Wild, flailing conjecture," House said. "Obviously." 

She pressed her lips together, a textbook-perfect expression of disapproval. "Let's just stick with what you know firsthand, shall we?" 

"Oh, right," House said. "I'm sure Sid and the General will give you the whole story, anyway. No worries there." 

Schaeffer consulted the file folder in her hand. "You mean David Chisholm and Philip Vare?" 

So Phil was his real name after all. House felt vaguely disappointed. "If you insist." 

"We're perfectly capable of putting the pieces together on our own, thank you." 

"Well sure," House said. "But why bother?" 

"Firsthand," Schaeffer repeated, and released the pause button once more. 

House sighed again. "Fine. On February sixth, Shirley Knowles came into the clinic..." 

He rattled off the whole story, beginning to end, in the most pompous lecture voice he could muster. When he was done, Schaeffer stopped the tape, then propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand, staring at him. 

"What?" House snapped, finally. 

She shook her head. A rueful smile twitched at her lips. 

"I know I'm gonna regret asking this," she said. "But-- what do _you_ think happened?" 

House cocked a sardonic eyebrow. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

By the time the police cut them loose, it was after one in the morning. Chase's face was purpling nicely, and he looked, quite simply, wiped out. 

"Cavity search?" House asked with faux-sympathy, as he trudged across the bullpen to the front door. 

Chase paused in mid-step, and he seemed to take a minute to think about the question. "No," he said finally. 

"Well," House said. "As long as you're _sure_." 

He'd called a taxi, and it was waiting by the curb outside. He held the door for Chase, who slid inside and closed his eyes with a long sigh. When House sat next to him and told the driver their destination, however, his eyes flew open and he fixed House with an outraged stare. 

"Are you shitting me?" he demanded. 

"We have a patient," House reminded him. "_Doctor_." 

"Yeah, but--" Chase broke off and snapped his mouth shut, resting his head against the seat back with a resigned expression. 

"Good boy," House said. 

They made the trip to PPTH in silence. House swallowed the last two Vicodin in his bottle and closed his eyes as they began to take effect. He hoped the annoying pharmacist with the tits wouldn't be on duty; he didn't want to have to call Wilson and drag him out of bed. It might be amusing, but then Wilson would be cranky the next day, and a cranky Wilson was generally a Wilson unwilling to indulge in mischief. 

Foreman was sipping coffee in the conference room when they arrived, poring over medical charts. His eyes widened when he saw Chase. "What the hell happened to you?" 

"Kidnapped," Chase said tersely. He collapsed into a chair with a groan and buried his face in his arms. 

Without a word, House poured him a cup of coffee and pushed it across the table toward him. Chase reached out and grabbed it without looking up, then turned his head and stared at it with undisguised longing. 

"It helps if you sit up," House offered. 

"I'm working on it." 

"Uh-huh," Foreman said, glancing back and forth between them. "What are you doing back here, anyway?" 

"I don't fuckin' know," Chase mumbled. 

House peered over Foreman's shoulder at the charts. "How's the patient doing?" 

"Hard to say," Foreman said, spreading out the charts to give him a better view. "But I think she'll pull through. Cameron's sitting with her now." 

"Of course she is," House muttered. 

Foreman twisted around and gave him a skeptical look. "Seriously. You came all the way here just to check on a patient? 

"And what's wrong with that?" 

"Nothing," Foreman said, "for a _normal_ person." 

"We shared an ordeal. I'm very concerned." 

"_We_ shared an ordeal," Chase grumbled, still staring at the cup of coffee. "You're not concerned about _me_." 

"And if you had anthrax, I'd feel guilty about that. Drink your goddamn coffee." 

"I see you two have bonded," Foreman said. 

"It's what I do best," House said. Chase snorted. 

Foreman sighed and stood, grabbing his coat from the rack. "Well, _I'm_ going home. There's nothing we can do now except wait for the antibiotics to take effect." 

At that, Chase finally sat up. He shot House a brief but defiant look. "Could you drop me home?" 

"Where's your car?" 

"Currently taking root about a hundred kilometers from here." 

"We call 'em miles," House pointed out. "But that's okay. You've had a long day." 

"Sure," Foreman said, ignoring him. "Where do you live?" 

They walked out together. Chase left the cup of coffee on the table, untouched and steaming. 

House looked at it. 

"Kids these days," he said.

* * *

He stopped by the pharmacy on his way out, braced for battle, and discovered, to his surprise, a brand-new labeled bottle waiting for him on the counter. 

"Dr. Wilson left the prescription for you," the pharmacist explained. "Said you'd be needing it." 

House picked up the bottle and rolled it slowly across his palm, staring at the white pills inside and wondering whether to feel grateful or annoyed for the gesture. Annoyed was winning the day so far, mainly by virtue of experience. 

Wilson was waiting for him at home, too, sprawled in the armchair with an open beer in one hand. Yes, definitely annoyed. 

"I need better locks," he muttered, slamming the door shut behind him and clomping toward his bedroom. 

"I have a key, remember?" Wilson called after him. 

"Hence the need for new locks!" House yelled back. 

He found his second-favorite cane in the back of the closet, and tossed the plastic one at the wastebasket; missed, but it was close enough for horseshoes. In the morning, he knew, he'd rescue it from the floor and put it in the closet with the others, just in case-- of what, he didn't know, but such was the nature of the packrat. 

For now, however, he left it lying there and returned to the living room, scowl only marginally relaxed. 

"Much better," Wilson said, eyeing him approvingly. "Very slimming. Why, that cane takes ten years off your figure." 

"I damn well earned those years. I want them back." House slumped down on the sofa and snagged the bottle from Wilson's hand, taking a long swallow. Wilson frowned but didn't comment, which seemed only reasonable, as it was after all House's beer. 

"Nice trick," House said after a moment, "at the dispensary. Are you gonna start cutting my meat for me too?" 

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Oh, here we go. You've had a long day and I didn't think you'd be up to arguing with the pharmacist. I was just trying to be thoughtful." 

"Of course you were. That's your fatal flaw." 

"So," Wilson said slowly, "you think I _shouldn't_ do favors for my friends. And you don't think that's shooting yourself in the foot?" 

"I've had quite enough of that today, thanks." 

"Considering me doing you favors is the entire basis of our friendship--" 

"Really?" House affected a surprised look. "I thought it was my NASCAR season pass." 

"It helps," Wilson admitted. "It softens the blow." 

"God, you're such a fucking romantic." 

Wilson blinked at that, but gave no other visible reaction. "Do you really think this is what we should be talking about?" 

"Depends," House said. He swung his legs up on the sofa with some effort and stretched out lengthwise, deliberately giving Wilson the back of his head. "Is one of the options 'none of the above, because our hero could really use some beauty sleep'?" 

"You think you're the hero in this?" 

House rolled his eyes. "It was a figure of speech, genius." 

"So you _don't_ think we should discuss the fact that you suddenly think you're James Bond." 

"Of course I'm not James Bond," House said. "I don't get nearly enough tail. And that damn well better be the royal 'we', or I _will_ beat you to death with this cane." 

"Yeah, but bloodstains are so hard to get out of wood." 

"I'll try the plastic one first," House said, pleased at finding a use for it. "You're kind of a wuss. I bet you'd snap before it would." 

Wilson leaned over and grabbed the beer bottle again; House thought briefly about resisting but decided that, for once, dignity was the better part of valor. He closed his eyes and listened to James drink and thought about the day's events. It looked like a lot more fun onscreen. 

"I think," he said at last, with great weight to his words, "I watch too much TV." 

There was a pause. 

"I'm speechless," Wilson said finally. 

"Ha ha, I win." 

"Well, they do say admitting it is the first step." 

"Unfortunately, the second step is interaction with other human beings," House said. "You see my dilemma." 

"So shall we chalk it up to a bizarre midlife crisis, and move on from there?" 

"Let's," House said tartly. 

He reached out blindly, and felt Wilson press the bottle into his hand. He took a few more grateful sips, then commented, "I don't think Chase likes me anymore." 

"You didn't dip his pigtails in your inkwell, did you?" 

"We spent several hours in forced close proximity with one another." 

"Ah," Wilson said, and House imagined him nodding thoughtfully. "That would do it." 

"I imagine the whole gun thing was just icing on the cake." 

"Ah well," Wilson said. "Another man down." 

Oddly, House felt miffed by his agreement. "I think I could bring him around. It's not a lost cause yet." 

"Say it with flowers," Wilson murmured. 

"He is _awfully_ pretty," House mused. "A little _too_ pretty." 

After a moment, Wilson said, "If that's your plan, you should probably start interviewing for his replacement first thing tomorrow." 

"Your faith in my discretion is touching." 

"It's not your discretion I'm worried about, it's the fragile bones of your face." 

"Whose bones you callin' fragile?" Lazily, House swallowed another mouthful of beer. 

Wilson was quiet for a while, long enough that House felt himself starting to doze off. The abrupt question jerked him back awake, and he nearly spilled the last of the beer down his shirt. "Do you think she'll make it?" 

House blinked at the ceiling. "Shirley?" 

"There's a joke to be made there," Wilson said, "but I'm not man enough to endure the ridicule." 

"Thank Christ for small favors." House set the bottle carefully on the floor. "Foreman seemed optimistic. I trust his judgment." 

"Careful you don't say that in his hearing. He might keel over from the shock." 

"Like I'd do that," House scoffed. 

Wilson shifted in the armchair; House heard the squeak of leather. "Do you want me to leave?" 

He thought about it. He knew he'd regret sleeping on the sofa, probably regret it for the rest of the _week_, but just then he didn't care enough to move. Wilson could take the bed. And even if he did manage to haul himself up sometime soon and stumble to the bedroom, Wilson wouldn't mind the couch anyway. 

"Stay," he said finally. "If you want." 

"It's late," Wilson offered, by way of belated, half-assed explanation. 

House closed his eyes again. "Don't you need a note from Julie?" 

"You know, that was almost a beautiful moment we shared." 

"So close, yet so far." 

"I'll stay," Wilson said. "Someone has to stick around to keep you out of trouble." 

"_Someone_," House said, "needs a less stressful hobby." 

"Someone tried that. It didn't take." 

House cracked one eye open and turned his head a little, just enough to see Wilson in his peripheral vision. Wilson looked tired and defeated and rumpled, if somewhat blurry. But he was smiling. 

House felt a reluctant answering smile tugging at his own lips. 

"Now that," he said, "is what _I_ call a beautiful moment." 

FIN 

_Er. You know what to do, right?_


End file.
